


His Dark Embrace

by SugarAndBone



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Daddy Kink, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Negan Being Negan (Walking Dead), Non-consent, POV Alternating, POV Daryl Dixon, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Daryl Dixon, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-08-17 10:03:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 79
Words: 114,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16514237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarAndBone/pseuds/SugarAndBone
Summary: Daryl Dixon rescues Francie Kelly, a beautiful, ferocious but unstable woman who's been through hell and back during the Apocalypse thanks to men like Negan, Simon and other Saviors. Can their love story have a happy ending or will one of them get gobbled up by a walker? Hmm. You better read it to find out.So much angst. So much fluff. So many erections. Sorry 'bout it.





	1. Prologue

She woke up to orange leaves in the sky above her. Tree branches kaleidoscoping as she floated beneath them. The pain came next, nearly paralyzing her for a moment. The shock of it. The weight of it.

“Just fine, girl,” said a husky voice. “I got ya.”

Something tightened around her. Arms. She was being carried. She gasped, the sound coming out like a hoarse croak that didn’t sound like hers and didn’t even sound human. The arms tightened again, and she could feel their strength. Bands of iron, immovable iron, and her helpless in them.

She twisted her head, but couldn’t see her captor, her protests coming out confused and unformed, nothing but desperate gasps.

“Hush, hush. Girl,” the voice said. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya, got-damn. Trying to help ya.”

She thought she might be crying but she couldn’t feel any tears on her face. The leaves blurred, until they were just a canvas of orange, then white, then nothing.

 


	2. Fast as We Fuckin' Can

When Daryl first found the girl, he thought she was dead. She was in nothing but a pair of black panties and a dirty white tank top which was shredded to the point that it barely covered her breasts and hung from her like a rag. Beside her were two corpses, shot through the head but also riddled with bullets. 

Damn waste of precious metal, he found himself thinking, in spite of the situation. 

When he got close, she gasped and her eyes shot open. Her face was streaked with blood and dirt and guts, but even so, he saw right away she was young and pretty. Young and pretty and ... pointing a Glock at him. 

Her mouth was badly bruised on the left side, and he could see it ached from the tender way she moved her jaw, but all the same, she hissed out “Get away!!!” loud and clear. 

He grasped his bow with one hand and held the other up in a surrender. 

“Ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he said lowly, as if speaking to a spooked horse. “Don’t need to be pointing that thing at me.” 

“Fuck you!” She bit out. “Don’t fucking tell me what I need to do!”

Daryl chewed on his bottom lip, feeling his stomach sink as he watched the girl with the gun trembling before him. She was gonna kill him, he thought. Fuck. Where’s Aaron when you need him? Aaron would be less threatening, more charming. Not a big redneck with a giant crossbow looming over her. 

Fuckin’ Jesus fuckin’ shit. This ain’t how he planned to die, killed by some half-naked broad just a couple miles outside Alexandria. 

“I’m Daryl,” he said, his words coming slow and stupid. “I ain’t mean to come up and scare ya. Thought you was dead ... like them.” 

He nodded with his head in the direction of the corpses laying near her. 

“Fuck them,” she swore again. Rage flashed across her face. “I killed them and I’ll kill you, too.” 

He raised his brows a little. Surprised a bitty thing like her took out these two grown-ass men. Her arms were so thin he thought even the gun was taking its toll on her, her tanned muscles straining beneath the weight of the Glock. 

“Guess they deserved it,” he said, keeping one hand raised and trying to maintain eye contact with her, which was hard as she kept looking behind him and all around the woods frantically.

“Who are you with?” She demanded shakily. “Where’s the rest of you?”

“On my own,” he said, to which she scoffed. “‘S’true, just out hunting. But we have a place a little ways north. Houses. Walls. All that. ‘S safe. Good people—

She interrupted his sales spiel with a bitter snort. “There’s no good people,” she said with a dry laugh. “Especially not men.” 

A flush formed on Daryl’s cheeks. Easy enough to guess what she meant by that, particularly being half-naked and all. 

“These men hurt ya...like... like that?” He asked, not able to bring himself to say the word ‘rape.’

She froze. Humiliation clouded her face. He felt his stomach clench. Neither spoke for what seemed like a full minute. 

“Glad they’re dead now,” he said finally. “Glad they can’t hurt you anymore.” 

His words snapped her back to the present. She tightened her grip around the Glock and pointed it a little higher at him.

“I ain’t like them,” Daryl said, keeping his voice low and gentle, even though he was itching to just bum-rush her and take his chances. He unconsciously bobbed a little on his feet, as if testing the weight of the earth underneath him. 

He continued in the same low, coaxing tone, “I ain’t gonna hurt ya. I can help ya...We have a doctor. You need a doctor. We have food. Clothes. It’s almost freezing out here and you’re...”

She suddenly looked down at herself and he could see a blush on her cheeks even under the bruises and the blood. A small sob tore from her chest and he felt her shame, shame heavy enough to hurt even a bystander like him. 

“Girl,” he said, wondering why it was that his voice was so calm when he felt his heart jack-rabbiting out of his chest. Beating faster than it had in ages, cause of the girl or the gun or both he didn’t know. “I can help ya. We’re good people. There’s good people there. Women and children, too. And, and, men but not like...those pieces of shit.” 

She raised her brows. And then quicker than a dime, she turned the gun and put it against her temple. 

Daryl bit down on his tongue. Tasting blood, he stumbled forward in the grass a little, then put his hands back up. 

“Wh—wha—Don’t—“

She interrupted him, shaking her head agitatedly as tears created an orbit down her cheeks, making tiny rivulets through the caked-on blood. 

“I have to,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to, I don’t want to anymore. I can’t anymore. No more, no more, no more.”

Daryl felt like he was being sucked into the earth. Goddamn, he couldn’t do this! He wasn’t Aaron or Rick or Michonne. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This wasn’t something he knew how to do. He didn’t have it in him. Kill, sure. He could do that. But comfort? Fuck, no. 

Closing his eyes, he sank into the ground on his knees. Something about the scene triggered something in him, a childhood memory he hadn’t recalled in decades. He was eight. Maybe nine. He had been goofing off near the old railroad tracks by his lonesome. Daryl was playing with Merle’s beloved slingshot, which he was under strict orders never to touch...but Merle was in juvie, and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

As he practiced his aim, he heard a strange sound. An odd animal whine. High-pitched and panicked. Equal parts intrigued and terrified, he moved deeper into the woods. There, he saw the source of the noise: A pack of boys taking potshots at a cat which they had strung up from a tree. The calico was near-dead, covered in blood and dirt, mewling piteously while the boys laughed. 

They were a damn sight bigger than Daryl, older boys, maybe even high schoolers. Daryl didn’t care. He went crazy. Screaming and shouting and throwing fists, ignoring their pummeling while he tried to get the cat down from the tree. 

In the end, he remembered them laughing, throwing sticks at him, lit cigarettes, fists, happily kicking his ass the same way they happily killed the cat. ‘Cause she was dead now, or just about, but not hanging from the tree anymore. She was in his hands, her light, squished weight slicking his hands with blood and something soft. 

They must have stopped hitting him at some point, must have, ‘cause then it was night … night, and dark, and he was alone with this dead thing, his belly a stone and his ribs and face aching from the beating. 

A whimper from the girl in front of him brought him back to the present with a jolt. 

“You like cats?” he asked her, opening his eyes. 

The question threw her for a loop and confusion clouded her face.

“Huh?” 

“Cats. We got one,” he said, noticing that her grip slacked a little on the gun as she focused on this new development. 

“You…have…a…cat?” she asked slowly. 

“Pretty, too. All black. Scared as hell of most people, though,” said Daryl. “Our doc says she’s pregnant.” 

The girl looked a little dizzy. Tired. Exhausted, even. He abruptly wondered if her wounds were bad enough that she could bleed out in front of him. 

“Kittens,” she breathed. “Kittens.”

“Yeah,” he said, feeling warm, feeling like he was closing in on her, feeling the way he did when he was tracking game and closing in on his prey. “But, no one in our group…we can’t take care of cats, really. No one has the time. Or the know-how.”

Her eyes widened a little. 

“I do…” she whispered. “I know…how.” 

“Yeah? See, I thought you might,” he said, resisting the urge to grab the gun from her as he scooted slightly closer towards her in the leaves. “Maybe you could help her, then. And the kittens, when they come.” 

She let out a shuddering breath and collapsed more of her weight on the tree behind her. She closed her eyes and then flicked them back open in fright, locking them onto to Daryl with mistrust.

“What’s your name, girl?” He said, still on his knees but now just a few feet from her. 

She opened her mouth, then shut it and shook her head. 

“They called me bitch,” she said. 

He hissed a little at that, and the unexpected sound made her jump. Her eyes widened unnaturally large as if she was fighting with her body’s every cell to stay awake. His stomach quaked. He was so close, he couldn’t lose her now. 

“I mean the name ya mama gave ya,” he said, softly, trying to ease her back into shallow water. “Know she didn’t name ya no ‘bitch.’”  
“Why do you want to know?” she whispered, looking up at Daryl with defeat. 

He was close enough to see the freckles on her nose, see the unshed tears in her cat-like green eyes, hear the rattling sound each tortured breath made as she exhaled. He could see now how wounded she really was, more than just roughed up, he could see she was emaciated and he noticed for the first time that her left arm was limp in her lap. 

“Dislocated shoulder,” he said instantly, not meaning to speak aloud. 

“I shouldn’t have talked back,” she replied, and the reply seemed as unintentional as his utterance, as her eyes widened again as if scared by the sound of her own voice. 

He let his eyes rake up and down her body, and he could sense rather than see her cringing at this action, at the reality of being near-naked and vulnerable in this way. The bottoms of her feet were scraped and bloody, filled with dirt and god knows what else. One of her ankles was so swollen he guessed it was sprained if not broken. Couldn’t believe a man would do this, but except he could of course, considering the dad he had and the world he lived in, both before and after the dead began walking. 

“Let me give you my jacket, girl,” he said, after briefly scrubbing his hands over his face. “And my tee, it’ll be long enough to cover most ya legs, small thing like you.” 

She looked at him curiously. “Why?”

“Why? Cause its cold enough to freeze the nuts off a frog, and you ain’t got shit on,” he said, starting to slip out of his leather jacket. 

Her lips twitched a little, and he felt a rare glow of pride in his chest, pride mixed with fucking relief that she was no longer sobbing and clutching onto the glock with a death-grip. 

“AND gimme that damn gun, shit,” he said in faux-exasperation. Then, watching her gape at him a little, he draped the jacket across her legs. 

She flinched, then relaxed, keeping the gun in her hand but lowering it to her now-covered lap.

“Warm,” she murmured. 

Settling for that, he grunted in approval and began unbuttoning his flannel to reveal a black t-shirt.

“Why are you helping me?” she asked, that drowsy sound coming back into her voice. 

“Shit, I need ya, don’t I?” He said, gazing up at her from under his hair as he undid the last button. “Don’t want to care for a whole passel of fleabag cats if I don’t gotta.” 

Her lips twitched a little again, pale pink lips with a brown freckle near the Cupid’s bow. Against his will, he felt desire pooling in his belly. Fuck, I’m such a piece of shit, he thought, lusting after a fucking wrecked girl on the lowest day of her life. But damn, she was pretty. Thick chestnut-colored hair that shone even though it looked like it ain’t been brushed or washed in weeks. Heart-shaped face with high cheekbones. Light green eyes and dark, arched brows. Long black lashes that curled over hooded, angular eyes. Pretty, alright. 

“You’re staring,” she accused, but she sounded distant and disinterested. He saw the light in her eyes fading and he felt like he might throw up. God damn, he really didn’t want this girl to die. Getting soft in his old age. 

“Let me put this shirt on you, girl,” he said. “Might have just keep your arms inside it, don’t think you can lift the hurt one ‘till Doc sets your shoulder.” 

If you make it back to Alexandria alive, he thought darkly. 

“Francie,” she said, not moving as Daryl awkwardly tried to pull the t-shirt over her head without harming her wounds. 

“Huh?” he asked looking down at her, his hands still wrapped around her shoulders as he tried to wrap the now comically-huge shirt on her small frame.

“She called me Francie,” said the girl, holding as motionless as a doll while Daryl now pulled the leather jacket around her torso. “Frances is my full name. She called me Francie.”

Daryl looked down at her, and said, “Just gonna put this away so I can carry ya, ‘kay?” as he eased the glock out of her hand and into his waistband. 

She didn’t make a sound. Her eyes were closed completely now, her breath tortured and ragged. 

“Gonna pick you up, Francie,” murmured Daryl, though he doubted she could hear him. “Gonna have to hold ya close to me, but I won’t hurt ya.” 

He figured she wouldn’t want to be manhandled by a strange redneck after all she had been through, but he had no choice but to lift her battered body into his arms and tighten her close as a bride to his chest. She groaned and he knew his very touch was like acid on her bruised, torn flesh. 

He stopped his apology in his throat. Switched back into hunter mode. Shut the feelings down. Focus. Get her home alive. She’s just a girl. Just a damn girl, no reason for his heart to be hammering like this and for desperation to be making sweat streak down his back even in the chilly fall air. 

Getting soft alright. Been in Alexandria too long. Focus. Listen. Stay sharp. Stay hard. Don’t be no damn pussy, said a voice in his head, a voice that sounded a lot like Merle’s.

A low coo escaped from her as she started to struggle in his arms. 

“Just fine, girl,” he said huskily, his quickening breath making his voice come low and gravely. “I got ya.” 

Like a trapped animal, she suddenly started to panic, bucking her hips, and flailing uselessly as she couldn’t move her arms from inside the t-shirt. 

He held her easily but he felt sick with stress and guilt. Why the fuck did this happen to him today? He was not cut out for this rescuing bullshit. Fuck. Ain’t no fucking supehero. 

“Hush, hush. Girl,” he said, frustration building. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya, got-damn. Trying to help ya.” 

Her motions stopped without warning, and he figured she passed out again. Until, a moment or two later, he felt her rubbing her cheek against his flannel, as if she was twisting her head around. 

“Francie,” he said aloud. “I’m Daryl, remember? Daryl. Daryl.” 

“Daryl,” she finally repeated. 

“Daryl,” he echoed.

“Where are we going, Daryl?”

“Home, girl,” he said, “Fast as we fucking can.”


	3. Ain't Got No Gentle Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ******Wondering what the heck the timeline is? Well, they’re living in Alexandria, still at war with Negan. So, season 8, if season 8 didn’t end in a defeat for Negan, but rather a prolonged state of war. Maggie had her baby. Carl didn't die. And I kept Denise alive. Because I wanted to.***********

Daryl sat smoking outside the taupe raised-ranch that was home to Dr. Denise and her wife Tara. He had been posted at the top of their exterior stairs for hours now, watching the bright yellow sunlight fade to mustard than pink copper than gray.

When he had walked into the walls of Alexandria with a half-dead woman in his arms, a quiet stir rose in the camp, and Dr. Denise had gotten a somber look on her face as she nodded him into their home. It wasn’t unusual for Daryl or Aaron to find a straggler or two in the woods, but not one in such a state—not one who so clearly bore the marks of violence and depravity, not one who bore such a strong testament to the brokenness and disease of the world. 

And, so it was that the Alexandrians who saw the girl pass through Peachtree Street in Daryl’s arms spent the rest of the day feeling pensive, and irritable, and alone, without quite knowing why. As for Daryl, he felt alternating shades of rage and helplessness, which to him, felt one and the same. He refused food from Tara, a plate of green beans and quinoa, but he accepted the water he offered her. 

Finally, hours later, Tara had come out and said Frances was resting, and Denise was hopeful for her progress. 

“She ate three clementines. Denise says she lost a lot of blood and needs fluids and antibiotics,” reported Tara, settling beside Daryl on the gray-painted stoop. “Has a bad wound on her ribs that is infected…it…”

She paused here, until Daryl grunted in irritation. 

“It had maggots in it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Daryl had a violent urge to bang his head against the wall beside him until the white-hot ferocity in him burned away. 

Tara clucked her tongue gently. “You saved her fuckin’ life,” she said. “Denise said she will probably be just fine, long as we can get her through the next couple weeks. You did it, Dar. You saved her.” 

“I didn’t do shit,” he said bitterly, lighting another cigarette. “What about…the rest of her?” 

“Her feet should be fine…though cut up pretty bad. Not that it matters anyway, her right ankle is sprained so she needs to stay off her feet anyway, and Denise got her shoulder—

“Aint what I meant, and ya fucking know it,” Daryl said, glowering into the street below them, refusing to meet the brunette’s eyes. 

She sighed. 

“Oh, Dar…” she murmured, then rubbed his shoulder affectionately, Daryl freezing at the motion. 

“Denise says she just needs time, okay?” said Tara. “You know, this was her specialty, her real specialty before this. She worked with a lot of trauma victims as a psychologist, worked with lots of women who had been—” 

Daryl stood up quickly, Tara’s hand falling off his shoulder. She looked up at him questioningly as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, chewing on his bottom lip and hiding his eyes behind his hair. 

“Think they hurt her real bad though,” he said, his voice breaking a little on the last words. 

Tara clasped her hands together in her lap. Neither of them spoke for a spell. 

“She wanted to die,” he said slowly, almost as if talking to himself. “Had the gun to her head.” 

Tara shook her head violently. “No one wants to die, not really. They just don’t want to hurt anymore.” 

“Yeah, but what if you can’t stop hurting?” 

His question hung in the night air, unanswered when a loud crash abruptly came from the inside the home. 

“Help!” they distinctly heard Denise scream out. “Tara, help!” 

“Shit,” he said, sprinting to the front door with Tara close at his heels. 

“Denise!” cried Tara, as they flew down the immaculate hallway. “Denise!” 

“In here!” called Denise from the back room. “Help me!” 

Daryl got to the room first. He entered and saw a silver tray of medical supplies scattered all over the floor, glass and debris everywhere. 

Denise was standing in the middle of it all, her eyes wide and a helpless look on her face. 

“She woke up and just…freaked on me, Daryl,” said Denise, trembling, and pointing across the room. “I was just checking her stitches.” 

He looked over and saw Francie huddled on the floor, an IV cord twisted around her legs. She was in leggings and a gray cotton bra, a thick white bandage wrapped around her pronounced ribs, a spattering of blood near the lower left breast, and her right arm strapped down in a blue sling. Denise and Tara had washed the blood and dirt off her, so her skin was clean and her thick hair lay in two wet braids on either side of her face. She looked worlds better than she had just hours prior, except her green eyes were awash in terror, and she was shaking so violently that it made the metal shelf behind her clatter in response. 

“Oh, girl,” he said automatically, without thinking, and then eased over to her carefully, taking soft steps and approaching her with his hands up. “Ya gonna hurt yaself.” 

Her head shook back and forth in response, her pupils giant as he got closer to her slumped form. He knelt before her. 

“Can I touch ya, girl?” he asked, not wanting to put his hands on her without knowing it was okay. “Carry ya back to bed?” 

She flinched a little at that, and the motion must have quirked her shoulder in a painful way, because she let out a shocked, pained gasp. 

“Hurts like a bitch, don’t it?” he murmured. 

Tears filled her eyes. 

“We don’t have anything for the pain except Tylenol,” said Denise quietly from the other side of the room. 

Daryl felt a flash of irritation. He knew the doctor was lying to him, but that wasn’t something to address right now. 

“Just get outta here,” he commanded to the couple. “I’ll take care of this.” 

“She needs to stay in bed, she can’t be doing this---

“I know that. She knows that. Just go, okay?” Daryl snapped. “She don’t know ya and ya scaring her.” 

“Jesus, she just saved her fucking life, how about some fucking gratitude—

Denise cut off her wife’s angry retort. 

“He’s right. We’re crowding her,” she said, grabbing Tara’s hand. “Come get some dinner with me.” 

Finally, Tara and Denise left the room, but even as they closed the door behind them, Daryl could hear Tara asking her, “Is it even safe to have her here? She could have hurt you.” 

Daryl cringed at the thoughtless comment and looked over to Francie. A tear rolled down her cheek. 

“I didn’t mean to—” she sobbed a little. “I broke all her stuff. I just woke up and…you weren’t here…I didn’t know what was happening….she was touching me, and I…” 

“Shit, it ain’t no thing,” hushed Daryl. “’S my fault. Won’t leave ya again, ‘kay? Not till ya want me to.”

Francie smiled in heartbreaking relief, then started shaking again.

“Hurts so bad,” she said, closing her eyes. 

“Let me pick ya up,” he said, “’Kay?” 

She nodded her consent. 

“Soft bed make ya feel better,” he said. “Get ya covered up.” 

He picked her up and she gave a prolonged squeak of pain as his hands gripped her bruised body. 

“Ain’t got no gentle touch, do I?” he asked her self-deprecatingly, but when he looked down, he was shocked to see she had gone limp in his arms, her face nestled near the crook of his armpit. 

And that’s how Daryl ended up sitting in Denise’s patient quarters all night, memorizing the face of a girl he barely knew while she sprawled in his lap like a cat by a roaring fireplace.


	4. Ya safe, pretty girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ******I switch back and forth from POVs, so we will see alternating viewpoints of Francie and Daryl in similar situations. For now, we are still in Daryl POV.**********

The sun rose and rose and rose and Francie was still asleep. Finally, at 8:04, Denise walked into the room, holding a tray of oatmeal and berries. 

She raised her brows at Daryl. 

“You sat like that all night?” she laughed quietly. “Gonna be hell on your back.”

He shrugged lightly. 

“She slept this whole time?” 

Daryl nodded wordlessly. 

“Must be the shock,” said Denise. “That, and I don’t think she has slept in weeks, not from what she told me.” 

Daryl flicked his eyes to her in surprise. 

“Yeah, she told me a little,” she said. “Don’t think she really knew what she was saying though.” 

“Pain will do that to ya,” Daryl said lowly, unable to keep his mouth shut any longer. 

Denise nodded curtly, and then moved to the bedside, lightly lifting the blanket to look down at Francie’s wounded stomach. 

“Bullshit what you said about Tylenol,” said Daryl, resisting the urge to raise his voice. 

Denise’s cheeks reddened. 

“I go on the runs, Doc,” he hissed at her. “I know what we get. I know we got at least, at LEAST fifteen bottles of Roxys, and Percs beside.” 

Denise’s hands trembled as she sat down beside the bed, lifting a cup of coffee to her puckered lips. 

“Rick decides who gets them,” she said flatly. “And he told me that they’re only for life-and-death emergencies…when we are desperate. Like amputations and C-sections and—"

“Fuck that!” snapped Daryl. “This is desperate! Fuckin’ look at her, goddamn!” 

Denise swallowed loudly, then grimaced a little. 

“Look, Daryl,” she said, keeping her voice urgent and soft. “I appreciate you want to protect her, that you feel responsible for her. It’s noble of you, really—” (Here, Daryl snorted)—”But, we don’t know this girl. We don’t know where she comes from or what she has done. We have a very limited supply of good, hardcore pain pills. I don’t want to waste them on a stranger, not when we are at war with Negan and could be facing a lot of bulletwounds or…or…or worse.” 

“Listen, here,” he snarled, leaning forward so that he was only inches from Denise’s face. “I’m the one who risks my life on these runs, while you sit here and play Dr. House. I risk MY LIFE so you can sit here with clean clothes, a full belly and all the medical supplies you need. I’m the one who killed for those pills, got my hands steeped in walker guts for those pills. I am the one who fucking led the raid on that clinic and got us those damn Roxys, y’hear me? Now, GET.UP.AND.GET.THE.DAMN.PILLS.NOW!!!” 

Before he knew it, he was shouting, no, screaming, and the girl in his arms snapped to attention with a bolt. 

She gasped and then clung to him, her one good arm curling into his flannel, a finger slipping between the buttons and touching his bare chest. 

His breath came ragged and he felt his cheeks aflame. 

“Get him the pills, Doc,” said a voice from the hallway, and Daryl looked up to see Rick standing there with an unreadable expression on his face. 

Francie twisted to face the noise as well, and when she saw the bearded man, she turned her head back around and pushed her face again into Daryl’s chest. 

“Trusting your judgment on this one,” said Rick, and whether he was referring to the girl or the pills or all of it, Daryl didn’t know. 

“But we need to talk, brother,” said Rick. 

“Now ain’t great for me,” said Daryl, looking down at the girl hiding in his shirt. 

“Fine. But, later.” 

Daryl gave a barely perceptible nod. 

Rick left the room, and Daryl said gently, “He’s gone, girl.” 

She hummed but didn’t move, laying a hand against her bruised jaw as if to stop the pain.

“Gonna get ya some medicine make ya feel better, ‘kay?” he said. “But first, set on up and eat some of this oatmeal, ‘kay? Need food in your belly. Don’t want the pills to make ya puke on top of everything else.”

Francie nodded obediently, and she moved as if to sit upright, but every inch seemed to cause extreme pain and so she halted over and over, wincing with tears in her eyes. 

Daryl watched her for a moment with a distressed look, then he clucked his tongue. “Shit, I’ll feed ya, ‘kay?” 

Her eyes widened. Daryl made up his mind, though, and reaching for the spoon on the nightstand, he carefully balanced the bowl of oatmeal on the bed next to his thigh.

“You like oatmeal?” 

She shrugged. 

“Hell, girl, sure it ain’t Denny’s but you gonna eat it all, ‘kay?” 

He scooped some on the spoon and brought it to her lips. She tentatively took a small bite. He pulled the nearly-full spoon away and quirked an eyebrow. 

“C’mon, don’t make me play the choo-choo game with the spoon,” he admonished. 

She laughed a little, and the noise shocked him so bad he nearly dropped the oatmeal. Again a rare, warm feeling of pride flushed inside of him. 

“C’mon,” he said, again, and she took a bigger bite. He managed to get her to take about four more big bites. Then, Maggie walked in the room, her face a mask of tension. 

She tossed an orange pill bottle on the bed and Francie jumped a little at the unexpected motion. 

“Here, girl,” said Daryl, moving Francie out of his lap and onto the bed beside him. “These will help the pain.” 

“They’re pretty strong,” Maggie said to Francie, not meeting Daryl’s eyes. “They might make you feel a little loopy. So, don’t go using any heavy machinery, okay?” 

Francie smiled a little but it didn’t quite meet her eyes. 

Handing Francie a half a pill and a small Dixie cup of water, he looked to Maggie and said “Thanks.” 

She nodded in acknowledgment. Francie swallowed the pill, holding her jaw gingerly, then climbed back on top of Daryl’s lap. He nearly choked at that, at the casual way she just made herself at home on his body, the way she had gone from pointing a gun at him to curling up on him in less than 48 hours. 

“You gonna stay with her?” asked Maggie. “Didn’t you already stay up with her all night?” 

Francie looked up at Daryl. He saw something that looked like…desperation in her eyes, and he felt that same desire in his belly again, desire and something more. 

He gave a curt nod, and a quick “Yeah.” 

“I’ll grab another pillow and blankets then. You can get some sleep on the bed next to her without having to hold her like that,” said Maggie, displaying a nurturing side that Daryl knew was uncharacteristic of her. Carol would think of blankets and a pillow for him, but not Maggie. “Get more rest that way, the both of you.”

Francie look alarmed and sat motionless on his lap. 

“Nah,” said Daryl, trying to keep any note of anger out of his voice, trying and failing, even as he realized that it was absolutely absurd to get angry at the suggestion he stop holding the girl. 

“Aren’t you uncomfortable?” Maggie asked, looking at him strangely, as Francie sighed and settled back into his chest and shut her eyes. 

“Nah,” said Daryl again. Though of course, he was. His body ached and he needed a piss and he had pins and needles in his legs But no damn way in hell would that stop him from keeping her safe, no damn way in hell was he gonna let this one go. 

He couldn’t save Sophia. He couldn’t save Beth. He couldn’t save the cat in the woods when he was a boy. But he was gonna fuckin’ save this girl, and keep saving her over and over, if he had to. 

“Daryl,” said Maggie, quietly, bringing him out of his reverie. He realized he had been staring at Francie. 

“She’s been through…a lot,” said Maggie, and her words sounded like a caution. 

“Meaning?” asked Daryl, even though he could already feel what Maggie meant, that Francie was only opening up to him and trusting him because she was broken, broken and confused. Had she been anywhere near well, she would have realized he was trash, not ‘noble,’ not a hero, but a trailer park lowlife without a high school diploma. 

“Don’t let her hurt you, is all,” said Maggie, shocking Daryl. 

“Hurt me?” he said in wonderment, looking down at Francie, who now seemed to be asleep. “Shit, she’s a bitty thing.” 

“That is not what I meant, Dar,” said Maggie. “And you know it.” 

Daryl looked up from under his hair. “Don’t.” 

“Sometimes…a kid might find a stray dog or a wounded bird or something, and bring it home and try to care for it,” said Maggie, pulling a strand of hair behind her ear. “They love it, they take good care of it, but…it’s still a wild thing, still belongs to Nature, not them.” 

“She ain’t no stray dog,” snapped Daryl. 

“We don’t know what she is, Daryl. For all we know, she could have been with Negan. She could be with him still. What if this whole thing is a set-up? Rick said that Negan could be messing with ---

“You think this is staged?” laughed Daryl darkly. “You didn’t see what I saw. You didn’t see her laying there, nearly dead, not knowing her own name.” 

“Negan has done worse,” said Maggie, her voice filled with meaning. “Much worse.” 

“She AIN’T with Negan,” he growled, tightening his grip around Francie instinctively.

“Just, be careful,” said Maggie. “It’s all I am saying. Be careful. We’re at war, and you’re distracted now.” 

“Did Rick tell you to say this to me?” said Daryl. 

“No,” said Maggie, and now it was her turn to sound heated. “These are MY words, MY thoughts. We need you. WE need you. This isn’t the time to be trying to help someone who probably…can’t be helped.” 

Daryl’s brows shot up. “Denise said she gonna be just fine,” he said coldly, his thoughts venomous as he stared at the dark-haired Greene. 

“Physically, maybe,” said Maggie. “But mentally? I doubt it.” 

“Your father kept a barn of walkers because he believed in their humanity, even after they were flesh-eating corpses,” said Daryl, feeling his body becoming hot. “But you don’t believe in keeping a girl safe and comfortable, a real, living girl, just cause she’s a little disoriented right now?” 

“Don’t talk to me about my father,” Maggie bit out. “You know who I care about right now? Herschel. The living one. The one who’s helpless and defenseless and needs me, ME and all the supplies we got on hand. Now is not the time to be taking in strangers. We agreed on that. We agreed no more new survivors till the war is over.” 

“I was on a hunt and I found her!” snapped Daryl. “’Sides, I wasn’t at that meeting, I never agreed to that!” 

“Well, excuse the fuck out of me, Daryl. Sorry you can’t be bothered to attend town meetings which we are ALL supposed---

Denise appeared in the room with a bottle of water, hushing Maggie with a finger to her lips. Motioning with her head, she jerked in the direction of the door. 

“OUT,” she mouthed. 

Maggie flushed and stood still for a moment, but then turned on her heels and stalked out of the room. 

Denise handed the bottle to Daryl. 

He didn’t take it. “She said she ain’t gonna be okay,” he whispered. He could feel that Francie was asleep, could sense the heaviness of her body as sleep had taken her and removed all tension from her. 

Denise looked sad. 

“Take the water, Daryl,” she said. “And don’t be afraid to lay her down in the bed so you can get up. That pill will knock her out for a while. You can’t take care of her if you’re a mess yourself.” 

He gave a short nod and accepted the water. 

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” asked Denise, looking down at her. 

Daryl just grunted. 

“Or didn’t you notice?” she asked knowingly, a smirk playing on her lips. 

Daryl blushed a little. “Fuc’ outta here with that,” he groused. 

“Sure, sure,” winked Denise. “Leave you all be. Get some rest, okay?” 

With that, she twisted the blinds to darken the room from the morning sun, and she shut the door tightly behind her. 

Alone again with Francie, Daryl found himself exhaling deeply. His mind was a rat’s nest of conversations and tension and rage and remorse, but as he held her quietly, his body started to felt unfurl, to become relaxed and peaceful. He could smell the shampoo in her hair, feel the warmth of her soft silky skin against his callused hands, and he found himself shutting his eyes and breathing her in. She twitched a little in her sleep.

“Ya safe, pretty girl,” he heard himself say, before he gave way to exhaustion and sleep claimed him.


	5. The Wolf from the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ****Here, we get a glimpse of Francie’s POV of her first night & morning in Alexandria.*****I don't intend for her thoughts to always be so jumbled, but she's currently quite injured and mentally unstable.

Imprisoned in pain, senseless with suffering. She knew she was being carried, probably to her death, or worse, but she had no strength left to fight. Her side was on fire, itchy and inflamed and rotting. She could feel the infection in her whole body, the way her skin was hot and clammy, the way her eyesight was blurry and weak and…

She was still being carried. She must have passed out for a while. But, now, things look different. Not branches and the thick forest canopy. But a clear autumn sky, and telephone wires, and voices…urgent, confident voices. No more crunching leaves under foot. Boots on gravel. 

She squirmed weakly against the warm brick wall that was carrying her, terrified at this new development. 

“Hush, hush, girl,” came the voice again, “I got ya.”   
Sounded familiar. That hoarse drawl. The wolf from the woods? What wolf from the woods? Wolf? No wolf. Her thoughts were ants pouring in terror out of a broken ant hill. Her stomach lurched. She was losing her mind. 

“’most there,” he said again, and she felt his grip tighten. 

For some reason, hearing his voice calmed her. Panicked as she was, hopeless as she knew her fate to be, feeling the thudding of his heartbeat, the steady breath on her face, the sound of his voice rumbling out his chest…all these things brought her comfort. 

Then, just as she was falling into darkness in the cage of his arms, she felt him disappearing, felt him releasing her. Her body was now supported on something soft, a bed maybe. She wanted to sob. 

“Pick me up, pick me up,” she tried to say, but the pain erased her too soon and all she could do was grasp onto nothingness. 

\--…………………………………………..—

“Eat this,” she heard. And she opened her eyes to see a plate of peeled mandarins in her lap. 

She looked around the room and saw a makeshift, medical-like room, in odd contrast to the cozy rug and ‘Live Laugh Love’ art hanging on the wall. 

“We didn’t hang that shit up,” said the brown-eyed girl before her, her eyes warm and sharp and peppered with amusement. “Eat this, now, and I will braid your hair.” 

“Where—

“Don’t try and talk, just eat,” said the woman. “I’m Tara. And that’s my wife. Denise. She’s a doctor, okay?” 

Francie looked down to see a woman at the base of the bed. 

“I’m stitching up your feet a little. This left one has a bad gash,” said the woman, who had also had a warm and sharp face, a face that looked intelligent but soft all at once. 

“She’s pretty awesome,” said Tara. “You can trust her.” 

Francie felt an orange being pushed into her hand and she tried to put it to her mouth, but the effort seemed to great. She shut her eyes in defeat.

“Just feed her, honey,” said the doctor from the base of the bed. “Weak as a newborn kitten right now.” 

Francie felt the flesh of an orange near her lips and the smell nearly made her cry. She hadn’t eaten in days, and even then, it had been cold scraps of what she assumed was squirrel or maybe rabbit. 

“Good, right?” laughed Tara, and Francie realized she had nearly swallowed the section of orange whole. 

She felt another one near her lips. Then another. Then another. She ate so rapidly she barely tasted anything. All she could do was smell the ripe, wonderful taste, and then she wanted more. 

“Slowly, now,” cautioned the woman from the bottom of the bed. Francie peeked her eyes open. 

“She’s starving,” replied Tara in distress, as Francie ate another from her hand, nearly biting her fingers in the process. “What am I supposed to do?” 

“Take a break,” commanded the doctor. “Braid her hair, then give her another. You’re gonna make her throw up and I just got the I.V. in.” 

Francie felt gentle tugging on her hair, and saw a brush out of the corner of her eye. She shut her eyes again. How strange, she thought, as she fell away again. How strange to brush a dead girl’s hair. 

\---…............................—--

Hands on her body. Wrapping around her flesh, touching, caressing, exploring her…Francie’s eyes flew open. She saw a shadowy form next to her in the darkened room, and she went wild with rage and hatred and shame. Kill, kill, kill, kill. Tear them to bits. Crashing, breaking. She heard roaring in her ears, felt the sharp pain of her knee hitting the ground, something wrapping around her like a snake, a snake…Screaming, footsteps. Kill them all. 

Then, a deep masculine voice and a light overheard. 

“Oh girl, ya gonna hurt yaself.” 

Darkness fell from her eyes. She wasn’t in the woods anymore. She was here, in this strange new place with braids and oranges. The man who carried her was in front of her, looking at her with an expression that was almost…tender. That couldn’t be right. Men weren’t tender. She shook on the floor, watching the scene around her, not understanding it, not understanding her place in it. 

The wolf sank to the floor, then crouched forward, reaching out for her. She felt ice around her heart, and looked into his eyes…looking for what, she didn’t know, but again she saw tenderness there. 

“Can I touch ya, girl?” he asked, the very question taking her breath away. No one asked her that, not ever. “Carry ya back to bed?”

Carry her, yes. She wanted to be back in his arms. She couldn’t believe that, couldn’t believe she wanted a man touching her, but he wasn’t a man, he was a wolf and she was safe laying against his broad, immovable chest. She made a motion to assent, noticing that he was waiting for her positive reply, but the slight movement sent pain radiating up her neck and across her shoulder. 

“Hurts like a bitch, don’t it?”

His voice was kind, concerned, and knowing…as if he knew how she was feeling, could feel her pain the same as if it was his. 

She wanted to reply but she couldn’t see through the curtain of confusion that fell over her. White bright pain all over her body. Their voices were quarreling now, she couldn’t understand it at all. She kept her gaze on the wolf, trained on his hooded, blue eyes and masculine jaw. Even through her mind’s blanket of pain, she could feel his mood, sense his anger and irritation. 

Then, she understood. They were angry she broke all the stuff, that she ruined all of their supplies. 

“I didn’t mean to—” she sobbed a little. “I broke all her stuff. I just woke up and…you weren’t here…I didn’t know what was happening….she was touching me, and I…” 

In another life, she may have been ashamed at the vulnerability in her voice, the neediness so evident in her words. 

But not today. Not tonight. Not tonight as she felt herself being gathered off the floor and onto the hardest soft place to land that she ever felt. Words came low and reassuring in a thick Southern drawl, and she felt the heat in them, the hedge of protection being built around her as her eyes closed and he held her. 

She slept and dreamed, the longest dream, the sweetest dream. Of her mom’s porch and dinner simmering on the stove and her nieces laughing in the yard and her mom’s bubbly laughter. Love surrounding her, and nothing dead. Nothing dead and nothing hard. Just home.


	6. Hiding in Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for comments & kudos! I don't know why I am writing this and I have no plans for what will happen next, but I am just kind of going with it.

All dreams end, except nightmares, which go on forever in this new world. 

Her body aching and empty and nauseous, she heard shouting as she opened her eyes in horror. Looking up, she saw herself still in his arms, and relief washed over her. But what was happening? She felt herself still trying to cling on to the threads of her dream, to the warm, yellow sun of her family, but Daryl’s arms around her grounded her to the present. 

He looked towards the door, and she turned in distress to see who was standing there. A handsome bearded man with eyes like ice spoke in a conciliatory tone, and Francie could feel Daryl’s pounding heartbeat slow down in response. All the same, she buried her face deep into his chest, like a shy child hiding behind a parent’s leg, but she didn’t care how foolish she looked. And his arms only tightened in response, as if he felt her need and was meeting it without judgment. 

All apprehension she had about the man who saved her from the woods was giving way to this need, to this dependence, to a feeling that if she stayed by him…she would be alright. But these new people, this new place…was not to be trusted. She trusted a place like this before. She would never make that mistake again. Never, ever again. 

Then, they were alone again, and Francie felt herself relax into his tightly muscled arms. She realized she had been laying there, head propped against his chest all night, half her body barely clothed due to all the bandages. But, again, she didn’t care. She felt removed from human emotions entirely. 

All except one: Fear. 

And the only thing that kept the fear at bay, kept it from eating her alive entirely, was staying close to this man she just met. 

It made no sense. It made no sense at all. But, to someone like Francie who had seen her entire family eaten alive by her dead nieces, well, it made just about as much sense as anything else in this hellscape. 

He urged to eat oatmeal, and she tried to obey but moving caused the agony in her body to ratchet up to an unthinkable level. She felt like her belly was on fire, like her jaw had been split in two. She imagined her flesh falling off her like it did off the dead things, there was no way she could be in one piece and be in this much torment. 

Reality was slipping in and out of her fingers like sand. She felt at any moment she could open her eyes and find someone on top of her again, someone inside of her, someone ripping her in two. She clung to whatever was closest, to the man who smelled like woods and smoke and whose voice was as rough as sandpaper. She wanted to crawl inside of his chest and stay there, hide there until this world was over and she could finally be at rest. 

But, then, warm, sweet oatmeal was being spooned into her mouth. He watched her while she ate, with eyes squinted in concern and tenderness, as though he was watching something very important unfold before him. 

And he was teasing her, just a little, enough to make her laugh in spite of herself. The sound shocked her (when was the last time she had laughed?) and it almost made her shut down in fear again, but then she met his gaze and saw something strange there…happiness. Pride. As though he was proud, or grateful, that he made her laugh. Like her joy was an accomplishment for him, something valuable to seek and maintain. 

What a thought. Even in the old world, she couldn’t recall a man looking at her in that way, in that intense, watchful way. Like every mannerism and blink and breath was being studied and committed to memory. 

Then, he took her off his lap and the moment was gone. Coldness returned. A bird entered the room, and it was angry and it wanted her eyes. That makes no sense, she chided herself, but she was shaking and scared all the same. She felt Daryl close a pill into her hands, and she swallowed it quickly and crawled back into his lap so she could be warm again. He was angry again, talking in stern, heated tones to the bird, or the woman, or the woman-bird. Am I dreaming? What if I am still there in the woods? What if I wake up and I am still…still…

But she heard him call her ‘pretty girl’, and what an odd thing to say, but then she fell profoundly asleep in a warm pile on his lap.


	7. Baby Steps

At some point during the night, Daryl had laid down on the bed, shifting Francie off his chest and onto the bed beside him. When he woke up, he was on his side, nearly on his belly, and she was half buried under his body, his top leg draped over her lower body and one arm clutching the rest of her tight into his chest. 

He felt a pang of guilt and gingerly looked down at her, thinking of her stitches and bruises in dismay. Her head was hidden against him, and he gently reached down to lift up her chin and see her face. In the early morning light, he could see how young she really was, early 20s, he guessed, and the stitches that Denise had inexpertly placed near her right eyebrow. That’ll leave a scar, he thought, and he lightly brushed his thumb against the air above it, being careful not to touch it. In her sleep, she seemed to have felt the motion, and with a low moan, she shifted her hips deeper against him. 

Shame suffused his face when this simple motion made his cock rock-hard almost right away. He hadn’t been with a woman in months, and Francie was by far the most beautiful girl he had ever seen…and certainly the most beautiful girl he had ever had half-naked and warm and soft and pliant in his arms. 

Because, sick as he felt admitting it, the truth was he was turned on by how much she needed him. By how she looked at him like he was the only thing safe in the whole damn world. By the way she curled obedient and submissive and trusting in his arms. 

Ain’t never had no woman do that before. Women didn’t trust him. Never had. In this world and the old one, Daryl had always scared people. Sure, he had his share of lovers, and plenty of women who talked sweet to him, but they always seemed to do so with a touch of amusement. Like he was missing out on a punch line and they were the ones in on it. 

No, no woman ever looked at him like he was some kind of damn hero. That’s how they looked at Rick. He knew, ‘cuz he’d seen it. The way the women in Alexandria would blush and titter when Rick came around, the way they turned their eyes and listened to him with total faith whenever he spoke at meetings. Made Michonne laugh her ass off, and Daryl would roll his eyes along with Rick, but part of him had to admit he was jealous of that type of adoration, that type of respect and approval. Always had been. Way back years ago, when he was first hunting for Sophia and Andrea had shot him, Carol had tried to tell him that he was just as good as Rick and Shane. “Every bit as good as them,” she had said. 

And he wanted to believe that. Wanted to desperately. But, he was no fool. He knew he was trash, trash that grew up eating fuckin’ roadkill and getting his ass beat by his near-toothless drunk of a daddy, trash that spent his adult days getting wasted on moonshine and meth while the rest of the world went to work and acted respectable. 

But this bitty thing in his arms didn’t know that. Didn’t know what kind of man he really was, didn’t know he wasn’t much damn better than the men she had killed in the woods. ‘Bout as far from a hero as a person could get, he figured. 

She shifted in his arms again, rubbing against his still-hard cock, and he bit down hard on his lip. He rolled onto his back to put some distance in between then, and she cried out in complaint. 

He smiled at that. Funny he lured her into trusting him by mentioning Enid’s damn cat, because that’s exactly what she kept reminding him of…a mewling, needy little cat. 

He reached down and pulled her body closer to his, carefully lifting one of her legs around his lower body, being careful not to brush it against his erection, although he would be a damn liar if he said this new position didn’t make him notice the warmth of her clothed pussy now tight and flush against his outer thigh. He pulled one of her arms across his chest, letting his fingers gently stroke up and down the exposed flesh of her silky arm for a moment, but only a moment. He didn’t dare touch on her more than that without her consent, the very idea of that made him sick, made him want to kill something. 

She murmured a little against him, her cheek rubbing against his flannel as she sighed. He looked down and saw her dark eyelashes flutter a few times on her cheeks.

“Don’t get up,” she whined, and whether she meant him, or her, or both he didn’t know. 

He laughed. “Ain’t. But it’s almost time for you to take more pills. Know ya hurtin’, girl.” 

“Ain’t,” she retorted, mimicking his drawl, and he laughed a little again. 

“Bullshit,” he said, but he had to admit he was not inclined to move a solitary inch either, not when she was so warm and soft and sweet-smelling in his arms, not when he felt like the whole, awful world had stopped and given him this one rare moment of utter happiness. 

“Daryl?” she asked after a quiet moment had passed, her voice husky and hoarse from sleep. 

“Hmm, girl?” he said, opening his eyes and letting a few callused fingers drift down her shoulder.

“Don’t like it here.” 

His stomach went down five stories without warning. Of course. Of course the whole, awful world was coming back for him, coming back to grab him and shake him back to reality, remind him of who he was and who he was not. 

“Don’t leave, okay?” she said, and his stomach did that lurching thing again. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking down at her to see that her green eyes were now wide open and looking up at him desperately. 

“Don’t leave me alone with them, okay?” 

He felt his cock pulse again. She didn't want him to go away...she wanted him to stay. 

“Ain’t leaving ya, already promised that, and I meant it,” he said, chewing on his bottom lip a little and tugging on one of her braids. 

She smiled in relief, and as her face lit up, he felt himself resist the urge to draw in a breath at the damn pretty sight of it.

Against his will, he forced himself to say, “Ya know, they good people. Real good people. Ain’t gotta be scared of them.”

He felt at war with himself. He wanted to comfort her, make her feel safe, but he heard this strange voice in his head, a voice that sounded a lot like Merle, telling him that if she started trusting the other people in Alexandria, she wouldn’t need him anymore. 

“Daryl?” 

“Hmm?” 

“You said there was a cat here.” 

Her voice sounded so pouty and offended that he laughed a little. 

“Shit, there is, girl. Ain’t lie to ya,” he said, looking at her upturned face which was now looking at him in faux-anger. “But you too damn sick and hurt to meet her yet. Want to be at ya best, don’t ya? Make a good impression?” 

She smiled a little at that, shaking her head in amusement at his teasing. He resisted the urge to reach out and run his thumb along her plump lower lip, resisted the urge to reach down and kiss her and find out if she tasted as sweet as she looked right now. 

A knock at the door jolted him back into the present, and the terror that struck instantly into her face made him feel doubly annoyed at the interruption. 

“What?” he called out, realizing that his arms had tightened in a vice-grip around her, as if he feared someone was coming to take her away. Damn, he needed to get himself under control. What the fuck was happening to him? 

“Breakfast,” said Denise, as she pushed the door open and walked into the room with a warm, open smile, as if Daryl hadn’t just screamed in her face the day before. “And antibiotics for Frances.” 

Daryl felt his ears getting hot as he struggled to sit up in bed without jostling Francie. He looked over at the plate Denise was carrying and saw plain toast. 

“Simple foods are best to start out,” Denise said defensively, and if he detected a hint of anxious tension in her voice, he couldn’t blame her, not after the way he freaked out on her over the meds. “Don’t want to push her stomach too far.” 

Daryl extricated himself from Frances entirely, and then propped up the pillows on the headboard.

“Gonna help you sit up, ‘kay?” he asked her, so quiet that even Denise could barely hear. 

Francie nodded and tried to help him with the mission, but her weak muscles were useless. Still, he easily situated her in a seated position on the pillows, then tucked the white blanket around her legs. 

“Try and see if you can get the toast down yourself,” said Denise, eager to see if her new patient was gaining any strength. “I need to refill your I.V.” 

Daryl handed Francie the small plate with the toast on it doubtfully. 

“Can’t she have no jam or nothing?” Daryl asked, trying to keep his tone nonconfrontational for everyone’s sake. Just seemed a damn shame to feed her prison food after all she’d been through. 

Denise turned from messing with the I.V. to give him a sassy stare. “Doctor’s orders,” she said. “It’s for her own good.” 

Francie said in a hesitating, stuttering voice, “I-I-don’t mind. Th--tha—thank you.”

Again, Daryl was left with warring emotions. He felt stressed to see that she was still so frightened and unsure around his people, but he also felt gratified and…proud that she wasn’t scared and stuttering like that around him. 

“G’on girl,” he ordered her, anxious as well to see if she could lift the toast to her own mouth. 

With a quavering, cautious hand, she lifted the bread and slowly brought it to her lips. The smallest crunch sound he thought he ever heard echoed through the now silent room. 

Denise and Daryl both smiled at her, then each other, all tension evaporating from the room. 

“Baby steps!” said Denise gleefully. 

She handed Daryl a mug of coffee from the tray. “Here, I bet you need this,” she said. “And I bet you want a shower…you can use ours if you want?” 

Daryl hesitated. A shower sounded incredible, even to him. He had not had one since a day before he left for the hunt, the hunt where the only thing he ended up finding was a human girl. 

“You can use our shower,” continued Denise. “There’s fresh towels and soap. I can send Tara to your place for clean clothes. She was gonna try to scare up some clothes for Francie here too. She’s probably freezing in just that getup, but I was scared to put anything over her head with the stitches and the…freaking out and all.”

Francie crunched audibly again. Daryl looked down at her. He couldn’t tell if she was listening or not. 

“Coffee, please?” she asked, looking up at Daryl and eyeing his mug. He was taken back a little bit at that. One minute she was mute in the middle of a panic attack, the next she was asking him for coffee as casually as if they were sitting in Starbucks instead of the middle of an apocalypse. 

He held out his mug to her carefully, letting her lean forward and take a sip.

“Ohmigod,” she whispered, a contented coo slipping out of her lips. 

“Go easy on that,” said Denise. “Bitter instant coffee can’t be good for an empty belly.”

Francie nodded obediently, but when Denise turned her head again, she motioned to Daryl for another sip. 

He snorted a little at that, and gave her another, making sure it was just a small one. She continued eating with an almost happy expression on her face, so Daryl ventured to ask, “Mind if I take a quick shower, girl?” 

Instantly, her expression clouded over. 

“Can I come with you?” She asked Daryl, looking up at him in a mixture of hope and hesitation. “I mean, not in…with you, but with you?” 

Daryl wrung his hands and looked up at the doctor helplessly. 

“Don’t you want to finish your breakfast with me, Frances?” said Denise doubtfully. “I brought a couple of books with me. I can read aloud to you for a while, before other patients come in for their appointments.” 

Francie didn’t reply but instead looked at Daryl. The clear, happy expression she had just moments earlier was gone, replaced again by that stunned, frozen look that he was starting to know very well. 

“Naw, Doc,” he said, trying to keep his tone good-natured. “She’s gonna come with me. She can just sit at your vanity while I wash up real quick.” 

He hoped Francie’s face would relax, that the panic would dissipate as quickly as it came, but she continued to look unnerved. 

Denise noticed the expression as well, and looked at Daryl sorrowfully. 

“Baby steps,” she said aloud again, and if she was trying to reassure Daryl or herself, neither knew.


	8. How many ya killed?

Taking a shower with Francie in tow proved to be more difficult than Daryl had expected. After giving her a pain pill and her antibiotic, he easily carried her up the stairs and seated her comfortably on the over-large granite countertop, but then he was faced with a predicament….how to disrobe in front of her. Ultimately, he decided to just duck inside the shower (which was almost as big as a closet and had two showerheads, real rich shit, he thought) and take his clothes off there, tossing his items over the glass shower doors. 

“Won’t be but a minute,” he said to her, trying to keep his voice casual, trying not to focus on the fact that he was now naked as a jaybird with this strange pretty girl sitting there wide-eyed and silent, just steps away. 

But, once the hot water jetted out and the soap foamed over his sore, aching muscles, he had to admit he lost track of time a little. He zoned out, his mind filled with the events of the last few days, events which sparked emotions he never felt, or rarely let himself feel, finally coming to the surface for the first time in his adult life. 

All in all, he was struck with panic when he heard Francie crying outside the shower door. Without thinking, he slammed open the glass door and grabbed a towel off the rack to wrap around his waist. 

“What is it? What is it, girl?” he asked despairingly, seeing her sob quietly in her hands in front of him, her small body rocking back and forth. “You hurt? You hurt?” 

She just shook her head wordlessly. 

“Shit, I was in there too long, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmured, and then, not knowing what came over him, he just pulled her against his chest, not caring that he was wet and undressed. She shifted forward on the counter so that her legs were dangling off the edge, making it easier for him to wrap her entirely against his chest. 

With big hands running up and down her back, he tried to think of what to say. 

“Perfume,” she said, finally ending the silence between them, although those few nonvocal minutes holding her in his arms felt more filled with communication than Daryl could ever recall having with another human. 

He turned to look where her gaze was pointing. There were a few old dusty bottles of perfume on a top shelf, obviously left behind by the previous tenants. 

“My mom wore that one,” she said. “Estee Lauder…her whole house always smelled of it. Everything…her car…sweaters, scarves…I just…I…”

She broke into sobs again, and Daryl tightened his embrace. 

Then with a tenderness he never knew he had inside of him, Daryl tried to soothe her, saying, “Shh, let it out, it’s okay. You go on and cry. Poor baby. Poor baby. I’m real sorry. You let it out.” 

She cried on and on, but the sobs became subdued and within a few minutes, she pulled back and looked at him with a tear-stained face. Her green eyes flicked back and forth across his face, as if she was thinking hard about something. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, finally, hiccupping a little. “I’m okay now. I’m really sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” he said, letting go of her awkwardly, and then remembering that he was half-dressed, he turned around to shut off the shower.

She gasped. 

And he remembered.

His back. His fucking back. Shit. Sighing, he turned off the water and turned to face her. Her expression was grave.

“Someone hurt you,” she said. 

“Long time ago,” he said quickly, not knowing where to look, but deciding to stare down at the tile. “Fine now.” 

“I want to kill that person,” she said, and he looked up in surprise to see her face suffused with rage, venom dripping from her shaking voice. “I could kill that person. I will kill that person.” 

Daryl didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The thought of her, this itty-bitty thing trying to kill his daddy (who’d been dead for 2 decades now) was of course laughable, especially because she was too weak and injured to even walk, but…the intent was there. The desire was there. The hatred, the burning, all-encompassing hatred was there. He knew. Because he walked with that unexpressed, festering rage most of his life. It was his most common companion. And, now, to see it reflected in someone else’s face, to see someone else taking some of his burden on as if it was their own…yeah, that part made him want to cry. 

“I appreciate the fuckin’ thought, girl…But he’s already dead.” 

She looked at him and shook her head in wordless rage. 

“So, I don’t get to kill him?” she asked, with childlike disappointment, as if he had just told her that her birthday trip to the zoo got canceled on account of rain. 

He laughed a little at that, and then pulled on a black t-shirt that Tara had laid out for him, carelessly shaking out his long wet hair. 

“How many men you done killed anyway?” he laughed. “This whole time I was thinking you just a kitten, but damn you got claws, don’t ya?” 

She shrugged.

He paused, a bit concerned. “They gonna ask you how many.” 

“Many as I had to,” she said flatly. “And not near enough. That okay with you?” 

He hummed and looked down at her. “Hell yeah, girl. But, it’s my people I’m worried about…”

Before that frozen, fearful expression could arrive back on her face, he quickly quipped,

“Close ya eyes so I can put my pants on. Ain’t getting no free show unless ya buy me dinner first.” 

She broke out laughing at that. 

Blushing with pride, he pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a belt.

“You can open,” he said. 

“Too late, I already looked,” she teased. 

“Shit, I know ya lying,” he said, raising his brows at her. 

“How so?” 

“’Cause ya aint droolin’ all over yaself, that’s how.” 

She laughed again, swatting him with an outstretched hand. 

“Now, c’mon, let’s go see if Tara can help ya get cleaned up and get ya some clean clothes, too.”

Her smiled disappeared again. 

“They’re good people,” he said, worry creeping in his belly again as he absent-mindedly tugged on one of her braids. 

“You keep saying that,” she replied coldly. “And I keep telling you…there are no good people.” 

“What about me?” he asked, “Why you take to me, then? Especially after what those men did to ya. Why trust me and not Denise or Tara?” 

Embarrassment flitted across her face. “I know I have been a pain in the ass—

“Girl, I ain’t complaining, shit,” he said hurriedly. “I…I made you come here. That makes you my responsibility.” 

But that isn’t what he wanted to say, not what he wanted to say at all. He wanted to say that taking care of her made him feel like he was something close to the man he wanted to be, that making her laugh made him feel proud and capable and needed. Needed for something more than his brawn and ability to hunt and skin game. He certainly didn’t say any of that. And he certainly didn’t say that her body felt like a key that he could unlock, that he was born to unlock, that he desired her more than he had ever desired any other woman, that he would be willing to fight and willing even to leave his own family if they didn’t accept her here. 

No, he didn’t say none of that. 

Instead, he groused, “Now stop sassing me and let’s go find Tara.

She folded into his arms without a struggle. As he lifted her, he couldn’t help but notice she quickly smelled him. Her eyes crinkled in happiness. 

“What was that about?” He asked, blushing a little. 

“You’re clean but…you still smell like you,” she said. 

He quirked an eyebrow at her as he eased her out of the doorframe. 

“Was worried you might come out smelling different,” she said. 

“Think you need more food in ya,” he said, attempting to hide a smile and failing. “Ain’t making no sense again.” 

“And more coffee?” she asked hopefully. 

“Shit, no. Nothing but water and gruel,” he joked, easily clomping down the stairs with her. 

Then, they heard voices coming from the kitchen, and she froze and hid her face in his shirt. 

“Francie?” he asked.

No answer. 

She was gone again, he thought, but for how long this time, he didn’t know.


	9. "Ain’t less of a man if you need to sit this out"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Y’all please don’t @ me regarding any medical inconsistencies in the next couple chapters. LOL. This kind of shit grosses me out so I couldn’t even really google for accuracy’s sake, but I did verify that this can actually happen. So, enjoy this fluff with a side of deeply inaccurate medical mayhem.***

“I think I missed something,” whispered Denise heatedly, her face twisted in distress and fear. 

Denise, Tara, Daryl and Rick were gathered together near the wide windows of the third-floor loft bedroom. The pretty gable room had a slanted roof, thick navy carpet, and bookshelves across nearly every wall. 

Daryl had to stoop to walk through most of the room so he didn’t hit his head, and the silver floral wallpaper wasn’t to his liking, but it was the perfect size and style for Francie, he thought, and he noticed how her eyes warmed when she saw the large, soft bed and the walls of books. It was so high from the ground that you could see nothing but branches out the window, making you feel like you were in a nest rather than a house, and the near-constant noise of songbirds added to the effect. 

After moving Francie out of the ‘triage’ room as Denise was fond of calling it, and into this secluded gable room two floors up, Daryl had been hopeful that Francie would slowly start to heal and open up to the rest of the group. 

But, now, the day which had begun with seeming progress was taking a sharp turn. 

“You want to cut her open again?” hissed Daryl. 

Rick put his hand up on Daryl’s chest, as if urging him to stay calm. The group had been arguing since Francie fell asleep after her last dose of painkillers, ever since Denise had examined her stomach and got a pale, worried look on her face. 

“I’m not a medical doctor!” retorted Denise, shame and helplessness painted across her face. “I did my best…but, I never saw anything like it before! I thought it was…rocks or pebbles or something ‘til they started moving!” 

At this, Denise started silently crying in her soft hands while Tara rubbed her back. 

“She had a fucking gash five inches wide filled with dirt and maggots,” said Tara lowly, angrily. “We don’t know what those fucking monsters did to her, but we are gonna fix this.” 

The despair Daryl felt must have been evident in his face, because Rick spoke gently to him, grabbing his shoulder in solidarity. “Stay with me, here, man,” he said. “Tara is right. We’re gonna fix this, okay?” 

“How?” snapped Daryl, unable to help himself from unleashing his rage on Rick. “How the fuck we gonna fix this? I got someone who ain’t know shit about no surgery or medicine telling me that that girl there…” (and here, they all turned to look in Francie’s direction, her slight, sleeping form appearing even smaller in the big bed) “Has fuckin’ maggots in her and she needs to be cut open again?” 

“No!” hushed Rick. “No one said that. Denise said she thinks she missed something…a piece of something, maybe whatever was used to make the cut…we just don’t know. She has to get it out. She can get it out. We have done things harder than that before.”

“She’s saved countless lives here,” snapped Tara. “She’s amputated fuckin’ legs and arms from healthy adults, kids even. And they lived ‘cause of her. Lived and thrived.”

“Well, then why ain’t my girl fucking thrivin’ then?” 

A thick silence fell over the room. 

Rick spoke first, an uncertain look on his face. “Daryl, I know you feel strongly for her, and—

“Ain’t what I meant,” interrupted Daryl, feeling foolish in spite of the situation. “She ain’t my girl…I just…”

“If I don’t do this, she will die,” said Denise, stoically composing herself and wiping her tears from her eyes. “The wound looks ten times worse than when she got here two nights ago. I must have missed something. I fucked up. But whatever it is, it’s infecting her and it’s killing her.” 

Daryl finally let the tears he had been hiding in his eyes fall down his face. “You ain’t got any…we ain’t got any…” 

He didn’t want to speak the words aloud. No one needed him to. They knew exactly what was on Daryl’s mind, what was on his mind the second that Denise said she needed to open up the wound: The group had no anesthesia. They hadn’t had any in months, and the last bit was used on a 6-year-old who came down with appendicitis over the summer. 

“We can hold her down,” said Rick. “We have done it before. We have all had to do it before.” 

Rick was right. Daryl himself had held down men who watched their own arms being cut from their bodies, he had seen women deliver babies with no pain medication at all, he had watched the pure torment of a person having their flesh cauterized to stop the bleeding of a life-threatening injury. 

“Daryl, I promise I will work fast and be as gentle as I can,” said Denise, interrupting these horrific memories. “You know I don’t want to do this either, I don’t want to cause her pain…but my god, I don’t want to cause you pain either. You saved my life more times than I count, the least I can do is try and save her for you.” 

“Maybe he shouldn’t be in the room,” said Tara, looking at Rick with a meaningful look on her face, and Rick started to nod in agreement. 

“Fuck that! I ain’t leaving her to be cut up alone!” 

“She won’t be alone, Dar,” said Rick soothingly. “I will be here, and Tara and—"

“Fuck. That! Y’hear? Fuck THAT and fuck Y’ALL if you-- 

“You can’t be here if you’re acting like this,” snapped Tara. “You need to fuckin’ check that attitude. My wife doesn’t have to do jackshit for this girl, and she’s here busting HER ASS--

“Enough!” Rick roared. 

Francie shifted in her bed and everyone went silent. 

“Get the stuff you need, Denise,” ordered Rick, his voice authoritative and cold. “Tara, help her.”

“Nowww,” he drawled when Tara continued to glower at Daryl. 

As the couple left, Rick sighed and gripped Daryl by the shoulders. 

“Daryl, get yourself to-fucking-gether and I mean it, brother. We all have people we love here. Ya ain’t the only one who has to go through this. But you have to be strong for her now.”

Francie shifted again. She was waking up. 

Daryl looked at Rick and nodded briefly, biting his lip. 

“You gon’ be able to do this, man?” Rick asked. “No shame if you can’t. I don’t think I coulda been there when Maggie had to…with Lori…when Lori…

Rick’s voice trailed off. Daryl didn’t need him to continue. They both knew what Rick was thinking of. 

“Ain’t less of a man if you need to sit this out,” said Rick. 

“Fuck that,” repeated Daryl again, this time quietly and without any venom, only sorrow. 

Francie slowly lifted her head off the pillow and looked around the room. She smiled a little when she saw Daryl.

“Let me leave you two alone,” said Rick. “Unless you want me to help explain it all?” 

Daryl shook his head. “Nah, I got it.” 

Rick nodded and released Daryl, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Francie, as Daryl walked over to her bed in the middle of the room. 

Daryl sat beside her, a feeling of dread tugging at his insides. Pull yourself together, pussy, he said to himself. Don’t fuck this up. 

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You’re scaring me, Daryl.” 

He looked at her, then lightly stroked her cheek with one hand, and wrapped it around the back of her head gently. 

“What?” she murmured, blushing a little as he stared intensely at her. 

“Denise…the doctor…she’s going to have do a little more work on you, okay?” 

Francie nodded, looking scared. 

He started slowly but the words began to tumble out faster and faster in spite of himself. 

“There’s something wrong with your belly. She needs to go in there again and make sure she didn’t miss nothing. Find out what’s causing the infection. And, girl, we ain’t have nothing to knock you out, you understand? You gonna be awake, less’n you pass out from the pain, which would be a blessing. But you’ll feel a lot of it, maybe all of it, and it’s gonna hurt worse than any-anything. We have to hold ya down, I have to hol-hold you down, and you’ll hate me for it, and cuss me as mu-much as ya need, but. It has to happen. Now. Today. Now.”

Near the end, his voice was breaking a little, but he did it. He told her. He looked at her, waiting for the panic to set in, waiting for her to disappear from him forever. 

Because that was his true concern. Not just that the pain would be unbearable, not just that the surgery wouldn’t be a success, but that it would destroy what little remaining grasp she had left on humanity…in other words, what remaining grasp she had on him. 

“Oh,” she said, and to his shock, she seemed relieved. “Okay, then.”

Oh, god, she don’t understand, he thought in terror. This will be so much worse if she don’t understand what’s happening, if she don’t get why they’re hurting her...if she don’t know why he’s letting them hurt her. 

“Gir--” he said, then stopped. “Francie, are you hearing me? Do you understand what I am saying to you? Denise has to cut open your belly, and we don’t have anesthesia. She’s trying to save your life, but the pain…when I say we will hold you down, I MEAN it. You gotta prepare yourself for that.”

She looked at him and nodded again. 

“But, you’ll be here,” she said, reaching out to grab his hand and hold it in both of hers. 

“Yeah, girl, ‘course,” he said heatedly. 

“Okay,” she repeated calmly. “Okay, then.” 

“Okay?” he asked in disbelief. 

“If you’re here, it’s okay,” she said, and she looked at him with such faith that it knocked him speechless. 

And, so, they sat there, together in silence, her holding his hands contentedly, him looking down at her and feeling like he was falling off a cliff, until Rick and Tara and Denise walked back in the room. 

“It’s time,” said Denise. 

And they began.


	10. Forty-seven-and-a-half minutes

There wasn’t much in this world that could touch Daryl Dixon. Starved and beaten and abused by his own kin, starved and beaten and abused by his enemies, his capability for suffering was untellable. He knew pain. He knew agony. It didn’t harm him. It only fueled him. Only made him more resilient and more unreachable. 

But nothing on earth prepared him for what he had to do that late autumn afternoon. 

For forty-seven-and-a-half minutes, Daryl sat with Frances in his lap, one arm wrapped around her neck and upper chest, the other holding her arms back behind her, pinned in between their bodies. 

Rick straddled her legs, a grim expression on his face as he held either of his palms above her upper knees. With her patient so confined, Denise was able to begin her unenviable task, while Tara handed her instruments and directed the light for her. 

At first, Frances screamed, or tried to, though she had agreed to be gagged for the safety of the camp. They were safe in the walls, but it seemed smart not to tempt fate by attracting walkers with needless noise. But her screams were gut-wrenching regardless, and each movement of the scalpel created new waves of agony. She twisted in vain, unable to move even an inch with the two strong men holding her still, each of them holding on for dear life and digging into her flesh relentlessly. 

Through her gag, Daryl could hear her trying to talk, trying to cry out, and although the words were muffled, he could hear her crying out his name over and over and over, begging him to help her, and he nearly sobbed aloud at this. 

He looked down and saw Rick looking at him with a tight, steely expression, as if he was channeling his own strength to him. Daryl let out a ragged breath of air, and clutched her even tighter. 

And then, not caring who was listening, not caring what they thought of him, he spoke to her without stopping, his words telling her she was safe, she was safe, he was right here, he wasn’t going nowhere, not ever again, he was with her, he was with her, she was okay, so strong, baby girl, so strong, so proud, won’t ever have to do this again, won’t ever get hurt by no man ever again, y’hear?, almost there, baby, so brave, 

His words never stopped at all. At times, she seemed to hear him, seemed to go from fighting him to clinging to him, seemed to melt into him at times rather than thrash against the torment. 

But then, her movements stopped. 

She was motionless and her ragged, tortured cries ended without warning. 

“She’s out,” said Rick, looking up at Daryl with intense, tear-red eyes. “It’s okay, Dar. She’s out.”

“I’m almost done,” promised Denise. “I think I found what might be the problem…just need another second. Damn it! Tara, stop moving the fucking light.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” said Tara, though they all knew she didn’t move the light an inch. “You got this, honey.” 

“Oh my god,” breathed Denise. 

“What?” demanded Daryl, his voice shaking with exertion and emotion in equal measure. 

“It’s the tip of a damn knife,” she muttered, extracting something from the wound and holding up to the light triumphantly. “Must have broke off when it hit one of her rib bones.”

Denise looked gleeful, but Daryl and Rick exchanged a nauseated look. 

“How fucking weird is that?” exclaimed Tara, shaking her head in wonderment. 

“It’s not that weird,” said Rick flatly. “It can happen in stabbing injuries. If the person really uses a lot of force.” 

Daryl squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled. 

“Just finish it, doc,” he said, brokenly. “Can’t take this no more.”

The room got quiet and Denise set to work sewing up the wound. 

“Thank you,” Daryl said, keeping his eyes shut, not wanting to look down at Denise’s hands slick with Francie’s blood. 

“Hey, like I said, I kinda owe ya big time. Besides, I’m almost done,” she said reassuringly. “Your girl is gonna be fine.” 

He huffed a little at that, and felt his cheeks get hot. Ain’t mine, he wanted to argue, but after what they had just been through, it was obvious to everyone in the room that while she might not be his, he was definitely hers.


	11. Into Her Darkness

Sometime during the night, Francie woke up. She didn’t move, she didn’t utter a solitary syllable, but Daryl felt her wake up. From his position in the armchair beside the bed, he could feel the energy of the room crackle and change, and when he glanced at her face, sure enough he saw her eyes blearily looking around. 

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he breathed quietly, moving cautiously to reach for her hand so he didn’t startle her. The bedroom was dark, save for the light of the full moon outside the windows, and a string of battery-operated copper-wire Christmas lights, which were wrapped around the headboard. 

Since the surgery ended hours earlier, Daryl had two dueling desires: He wanted Francie to rest and rest and rest until she was so far from the pain she couldn’t remember it, and he wanted Francie to wake up so he could talk to her, hold her, make her smile again. 

But, now, with her finally awake, he had a terrible feeling that might not be possible. 

She looked lost. “But I didn’t remember to measure.” 

His stomach sank a little. “Huh, girl?” he asked, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. 

“I didn’t measure and now it’s too late,” she said. “I messed it all up.”

She started to cry. 

“Oh, girl, no,” he said despairingly. “Ya didn’t mess anything up.”

“I did, I did, I did, I did. And they’ll come back,” she said, grabbing Daryl’s t-shirt and wrapping her fingers in it. “They’re coming back for me and I still haven’t finished the formula.”

Daryl desperately wanted to call for Denise, but it was late, nearly 3 a.m. and he doubted she would hear from the master bedroom on the ground floor. 

“Girl, it’s just stuff in your head,” he said, glad he sounded more confident than he was. “It ain’t real, okay? Ain’t real.” 

“Real?” she asked. “Nothing is real. I know because they told me. I didn’t want to listen, but they told me. And now they’re coming back and it’s too late.”

He felt sick with dismay.

“Gonna move ya a little, okay? Tell me if I hurt ya.” 

He moved over to the other side of the bed, shifting her body a little to make room, snuggling deep into her side, the side which hadn’t been operated on twice in less than 48 hours. He pulled her onto his right bicep as best he could while keeping her flat on her back, hoping her stitches wouldn’t be harmed. He just had to hold her, had to touch her—not only for his own sake, but because something told him it was the only way to ground her right now, only way to help her come back from that nightmare place. 

“I’m real,” he said, in a low, solid tone. “And you’re real. And you’re safe. No one is ever going to hurt you again.”

She turned her head, her cheek wet against his exposed bicep as she looked up at him. 

“I thought you were a wolf but you’re a man,” she said. “And I thought I was swimming, but it was just blood…” 

He grunted and twisted a little in the bed to face her, using his free hand to stroke her cheek and wipe away one fat tear. 

“Just rest. Don’t talk no more, sweet girl,” he finally said. 

“Because it makes you sad?” 

He frowned. “No.” 

“You’re real but you lie.” 

She had him there, he had to admit. 

“Will you take out my hair? These things hurt.” 

He looked down and saw that she was moving her head awkwardly on the pillow, trying to adjust her braids. 

“Too bumpy,” she complained. 

He pulled his arm out from underneath her and propped himself up on his forearm. 

“Can try,” he said, feeling out of his element. 

“Don’t tell,” she said. “If you tell, then they’ll know.”

He nodded his head, not knowing what the hell else to say. 

It turned out to be easy to remove the braids, her dark hair untwisting silkily even in his clumsy hands. 

He did the same on the other side, taking his time a little more, letting himself enjoy this task, this simple thing he could do to make her more comfortable. 

“I like you touching me,” she said, abruptly, making him flush. “I want you to touch me everywhere.” 

His fingers went still. 

“All done,” he said, awkwardly sinking back down on the pillow next to her. 

“No, keep touching me,” she said. Pleaded, even. 

He felt hot. This wasn’t right. 

“I can touch you if you want, you know,” she said, almost angrily now. “I can if you want. That’s what I do.” 

Tears stung his eyes. He wished the sun would come up and obliterate this horrible night. 

“I don’t want that, baby girl. Stop.”

“Cuz I’m making you sad again?” 

He shook his head and put his hand on his face. 

“I’m sorry, Daryl,” she said desolately. “I thought that is what I was supposed to do. That’s what they said. That’s the rule and if I don’t follow that rule—and now you are so, so sad and it’s all my fault and I--”

“No, no,” he said hastily, giving her a faint smile. ‘”I’m okay…but, don’t…I don’t want that from you.” 

“Oh.” 

She was silent for so long he almost thought she was asleep, but he was afraid to twist his head and look, in case the motion woke her up. 

But then: 

“Is this real?” she whispered, and he had the impression she was talking to herself and not to him. 

He looked at the ceiling, the low slanted roof mere feet from his face. 

“I remember little kids, lots of little kids,” she said. 

Daryl feared this was another senseless ramble, but then she said, “I think I was a preschool teacher. I think that was real.” 

He smiled a little at that. “Lucky kids,” he said. 

“Lucky?” 

“Sure, to have you as a teacher, I mean,” he said, stroking her hair a little, hoping against hope that it was okay for him to be touching her like this, sharing a bed with her like this. “What else you remember, girl?”

She was quiet then said, “Snow. Cold. Noodles.” 

“Noodles?” he asked. 

“I think I ate them a lot.” 

“Oh,” he said, and he liked that picture in his head. Francie somewhere in the North, in a warm, bright classroom, eating noodles at her desk while the kids were at recess. 

“What do you remember?” she asked.

Daryl paused, his mind churning as he thought of something that wouldn’t scare her away. He couldn’t think of a single damn thing. Until: 

“Gummy bears.” 

She giggled. “Gummy bears?” 

“Yeah, I think I ate them a lot.” 

She looked up at him and giggled again, her face glowing in the Christmas lights. That’s it, girl, that’s it, he thought. 

“When I was a kid, I liked to bite their heads off one by one, then eat the body separately,” she said. “It’s more humane that way.” 

He raised his eyebrows and laughed. 

“I wish we had some right now,” she said longingly. 

“You can have whatever the hell you want tomorrow, long as you promise to go to sleep,” he said. 

She was quiet.

“I’ll try,” she said finally. “But it’s so hard to find myself again…when I wake up from the dreams.” 

His face clouded. “I know, girl. But that’s why I am here to help, right? I’ll help ya, okay? But your body needs sleep.” 

She nuzzled her body a little deeper into his. “I wish you could be in my dreams with me,” she said. 

Daryl allowed himself the luxury of reaching down and kissing the top of her head gently. “Can’t ya dream me into ‘em?”

“I already tried that,” she said forlornly. “They said you can’t be there. They said they would hurt you. So I sent you away.” 

His heart tugged. “They can’t hurt me, girl. They ain’t real.” 

She breathed heavily and murmured something that didn’t make any sense. And, then, like a light going off, he felt her go away as she slipped back into that dreamworld. 

“I’m here, sweet girl,” he said in the silent room, and he hoped like hell that it made its way into her darkness.


	12. You’re like pretty much a catch?

Daryl woke up with the sunrise, the birds outside the window causing such a racket he didn’t know how anyone could sleep through it. But Francie did, her body loose and limp against his, her hair spread across his arms and tickling his nose. Funny he had only woken up next to her a few times, but the thought of sleeping alone again, back in his bedroom in Rick’s house, made him feel hollow. 

But he had a sinking feeling that it was time, that he wasn’t doing a good thing by sharing a bed with her. After what happened last night, he slept fitfully, his head swarming with guilty, hateful thoughts. What kind of man climbs into bed with a woman who just got…but no, he didn’t let himself think that far. But it was obvious she was confused and unstable, and yet here he was holding her, touching her, acting like he had a right or consent or…

He needed to talk to Denise. 

He pulled his arm out from under her as gently as possible, then sat up gingerly. The carpet was soft and thick, and it was simple to sneak out the door without waking the weakened girl. He found Denise eating a bowl of dry cereal alone at the kitchen island. 

She smiled when she saw him, her eyes puffy and sleep-deprived but happy. 

“Morning, sunshine!” she said. “How’s our little patient?”

Daryl shrugged. “Think she has a fever. She’s really hot.” 

Denise nodded. “I’ll take her temperature when she wakes up. Her body is still fighting the infection in her side. Here, have some Cap’n Crunch. It is stale, but—

Daryl interrupted flatly, looking out the window. “Last night she acted weird.” 

Denise looked confused. “How?” 

“She tried to…” Here he became tongue-tied.

“Tried to…what?” 

“She was acting like…like…I wanted to have…like we were supposed to be…” 

Daryl looked at Denise helplessly. 

“Oh,” said Denise, realization breaking on her face. 

Daryl balled his fists. 

“Ain’t my intention, you know that, right? I would never—never do that. That’s not what…I mean, yeah, she’s pretty as hell, okay, I admit it, but—”

“Daryl, you don’t have to convince me,” said Denise, giving him a trusting smile. 

“Then, why? Why would she think she had to do that for me?” He felt so dirty and disgusted with himself, he didn’t care how pathetic he sounded. 

Denise sighed. “I don’t know…the human brain, it’s not linear, it’s not black-and-white. She’s confused. She’s in a state of de-realization. She doesn’t know what’s real and what’s in the past and what we want from her.” 

“But I thought she felt safe with me,” he said dejectedly. He couldn’t believe he could be so stupid. Why would any woman feel safe with him? 

“She does, of course she does, Dar,” said Denise, dropping her bowl in the sink and rubbing his back with a sweet smile. “But maybe…she thinks she owes you? Maybe that’s what those…maybe that’s what they told her?” 

Daryl bit his lip angrily.

“How am I supposed to help her?” 

Denise stood by him silently for a minute. 

“Look, in another world, in another time, if Francie was my patient, I would probably advise her not to get in a relationship, not to…not to share a bed with someone new and undergo a new sexual—

“It ain’t LIKE that,” snapped Daryl.

Denise grabbed his bicep. “I know that, Dar, I promise I know that. But I’m just saying, that would be my advice across the board. To take time and heal before being intimate, in ANY way, with someone new.” 

Daryl’s stomach sank. He knew she was right. 

“But, this isn’t the old world. I can’t prescribe yoga classes and journaling and walks in nature and anti-anxiety medication. I can’t sit with her in a courtroom to see her rapists put away. I can’t tell her to take a vacation with her girlfriends or have her adopt a dog. I can’t make her feel safe in a world that isn’t safe at all, in a world that wants to eat her alive.”

Daryl stood listening. 

“So, if you can make her feel safe, if you can help stay calm and keep her from having panic attacks and ripping out her stitches and hurting herself…then, I say, good,” she said. 

He raised his brows. 

“As long as you’re okay with it,” said Denise, eyeing him carefully.

“What do you mean?” 

“Look, I know we are still building a friendship, but, I know a little about your past. Not much, but enough,” said Denise, and here Daryl flushed. “You have a lot of trauma yourself. And you only just recently get back from Negan and what he did to you at the Sanctuary.” 

“What are you saying?” he demanded. 

“You have to take care of yourself too, is all,” she said. “Don’t…don’t get too focused on Frances. She’s sweet, and delicate, and ferocious, and sad, and I want to help her too…like really, really bad, but…I’ve had years of training in this, and the first thing they teach you is: You have to learn to let go. You can’t fix everyone.” 

Daryl was silent. 

“Can’t do that,” he said, finally. “Ain’t gonna let her go.” 

Denise nodded, as if she knew he was going to say that.

“But, if I am hurting her, if I am crossing a line or being….I mean, I know I ain’t exactly like…Rick or something, ya know? Like I ain’t no good man or…” Here, Daryl paused for words again. He didn’t know how to express to Denise that he felt like an imposter with Francie in his arms, that he felt dirty and inferior and ashamed to be close with anyone, let alone someone sweet and broken like her. 

“Daryl….Any woman would be lucky to have you, you know that, right?” asked Denise slowly, confusedly. 

He rolled his eyes a little at that and snorted. 

“I mean it, you’re like pretty much a catch?” she said smiling.

“Doc, cut it out ‘fore I go tell your wife ya pitching for the other team, now,” he said grouchily, but his eyes were twinkling, and the heavy rock in his belly was gone. 

“I better go back up there,” he said. “Don’t want her waking up alone.” 

“See? A total catch,” she said, tsking him a little. “Here, take some cereal and water. I will be up in a bit.” 

Daryl took the tray from her hand and started to head up the stairs. 

“Oh, and Dar? Rick wants to talk to you later. He said someone named Simon has a message for you.” 

His steps halted. He shut his eyes. 

“Okay,” he said, and then he opened his eyes and walked up the steps.


	13. Simon's Message

When Daryl entered the gable room, he was surprised to see Francie awake. She was half sitting up in bed, hair falling down everywhere, small hands peeling at the top of the bandage on her stomach. 

“No, girl, no!” 

Francie gasped and looked up. He set down the tray and rushed to the bedside, pulling her hands away firmly and pushing them down by her side. 

“Why am I all wrapped up?” she asked, her voice hoarse and raw-sounding. “I’m all wrapped up but I am so cold.” 

He realized that then she was covered in goosebumps, still clad in only in a cotton bra and crop top after the surgery the night before. 

“Let me help you get a shirt on, girl,” he said. “Tara left some clothes for ya over on the windowseat.”

“Did I get hurt?” 

He picked up a dark pink long john that he recognized as something Enid sometimes wore. 

“You got a little hurt,” he said, carrying the shirt over to her. “But you’re safe now. I’m taking care of ya.” 

“That’s nice, but can you send in my mom now? I need my mom,” she said timidly. 

His face fell. 

“Put this shirt on, Francie, let me help you,” he said, awkwardly sitting her up on the pillows with one arm while pulling the shirt over her head with the other. “And then you gotta take your medicine, okay?” 

“I dreamed a dinosaur bit me,” she said. “And then I woke up, and it was real. I wanted to see the tooth marks.” 

Daryl always struggled with talking even at the best of times, but now he felt at a loss for words like never before. 

Finally, he settled on just saying, “Here, swallow these.” 

She obeyed but when the water hit her throat, her eyes widened and she clutched there in a panic. 

“Owwww,” she said. “Throat hurts so bad.” 

From the screaming, he thought, but didn’t say. Instead, he just handed her a bowl of Cap’n Crunch, and she began eating them out of the bowl one by one. 

“When do I get to go home?” she asked.

“Soon, girl,” he lied, wishing like hell that he wasn’t such a dumbass. “But you gotta rest a lot more.” 

“Oh. Because of the dinosaur.” 

He paused, then shrugged in semi-agreement. 

“Everything hurts. Don’t wanna eat this.” 

He wanted to argue the point, but she collapsed back onto the pillows and closed her eyes. 

“The stars go waltzing out in blue and red…arbitrary blackness gallops in,” she huskily murmured, twisting her fingers in the bedsheets. 

He sank down in the armchair, pushing his hair out of his eyes. 

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead…I think I made you up inside my head.” 

Feeling lost, Daryl decided to do what he did whenever he was getting lost while tracking game. Follow his gut. 

“Can I hold your hand, girl?” 

She sighed, and nodded, peeking her eyes open for a second while he scooted the chair so close to the bed that his knees touched the mattress. He picked up her small, feverish hand and held it in his. 

“I think I made you up inside my head,” she repeated, dreamily now, as if she were only half-conscious of the words. 

And then she was gone again. 

\---…………………….---

Francie slept hard the rest of the day. Sometime around supper, Rick came in the room to find Daryl and check on the girl’s progress. He found Daryl weary and half-asleep in the armchair, holding Francie’s hand loosely in his. 

Rick took in the scene for a moment before clearing his throat lightly. 

Daryl snapped to attention instantly, turning to look at Francie as soon as his eyes opened. Then, seeing she was fine and sensing Rick’s presence near the door, he turned and gave a half-hearted nod. 

“Come eat some dinner with me,” said Rick. “Carl and Enid got a few squirrels yesterday. Carol made chili…pretty damn good, too.” 

Daryl hesitated, looking down at his hands which were entwined with Francie’s hands. 

“You know I gotta talk to you, man,” said Rick, patiently but firmly. “C’mon…Denise is coming in to sit by her.” 

Daryl grunted and followed Rick out of the room. He led Daryl to the screened in porch on the second floor, where food was already laid out and waiting. 

“Need to talk private,” Rick said, but it wasn’t until Daryl had eaten two bowls of the squirrel stew that Rick would share what was on his mind. 

“Look, man, we all see how you care for this girl,” he said. “I can’t say I understand it…not totally, I mean hell, you only just met her. Sure she’s real pretty, but--” 

Daryl’s eyes flashed and Rick held up his hands. “Listen, that’s not the point. It don’t matter why you care for her. But it’s clear you do. Only, she might not be who we think she is.” 

“What the fuck ya saying man? Just spit it out.” 

The sound of frogs filled the silence in the night air. 

“Denise tell ya that Simon has a message for you?” 

Daryl briefly nodded, then chewed the ragged nail on his thumb. 

“He says that girl belongs to him,” said Rick pointing his finger up to the ceiling as if motioning to Francie’s room. “Said she was his at the Sanctuary, that two of his workers ran off with her. Been missing for weeks.” 

Daryl felt the color drain from his face. This was the message he had been trying to avoid all day, this was the reason he had a pit in his stomach ever since Denise told him that Simon had a message for him. He knew it would be about Francie. He just knew it. 

“He wants her back, Dar,” said Rick. “He wants her back and he said—

“You know that’s not happening, right?” interrupted Daryl, his voice cold and flat. “You aren’t thinking otherwise, right?” 

“Dar, be calm, now, I am trying to explain to you—

“Be calm?” snapped Daryl, leaping to his feet and shoving the patio chair scraping against the hardwood floor. “Be calm about handing Francie over to be raped?” 

“Dar,” said Rick, standing up and gripping Daryl by the shoulders. “But maybe…she wants to be with him.” 

Daryl’s jaw muscle pulsed erratically. His eyes searched Rick’s for a moment, then darkened. 

“Maybe those men that took her, they’re the only ones who hurt her,” said Rick, as Daryl sat down in his chair slowly. 

“Ain’t…possible,” breathed Daryl, shaking his head in confusion. 

“I’m not saying she’s a bad person, brother,” said Rick, sinking to his feet and putting a tight hand on Daryl’s knee. “Not everyone at the Sanctuary is as evil as Negan and his Saviors. So, maybe—” 

Here, Rick paused. Daryl let out a exhale and focused his gaze on the dirty bowls on the table. 

“I don’t know, man,” Rick continued, “Maybe he saved her, maybe he took care of her, I don’t know. Maybe she wants to be with him.”

“And maybe she DON’T,” said Daryl, his voice heated and petulant, sounding for all the world like the Daryl he used to be when he first met Rick. 

“Let’s ask her,” said Rick. “Let’s just ask. Then go from there.” 

Daryl slammed his fists down on the table. “Fuck you mean, ask her? She’s out of her mind half the time, talking crazy, don’t know what’s real and what’s not—

Then, Daryl stopped himself. “What do you mean, go from there?” 

Ice dripped from his voice. 

Rick sighed, and rose to his feet, turning to pace towards the screened walls. His back to Daryl, staring into the darkened neighborhood, Rick said, “Whether she wants to go or not, the council is going to vote...going to decide if we give her to Simon.” 

There it was. There it was. Daryl lunged across the table, grabbing Rick by the back of the neck, toppling him onto the floor and sending the dishes on the table flying. Unleashing obscenities, he landed his fist in Rick’s face, but he soon lost the upper hand. Days of not eating or sleeping had left him weak compared to the wiry officer, and he found himself belly-down on the ground, Rick straddling him and getting him good on the side of the face. 

“What the fuck is happening?” asked Tara from the doorway, and suddenly the pair were being pulled apart by Carl and Sasha and Tara. 

“We heard the noise in the kitchen,” said Carl, glaring at Daryl. “What happened, Dad?” 

“Your daddy wants to send a girl to get RAPED, that’s what’s happening,” hissed Daryl, wrenching himself out of Sasha and Tara’s arms and wiping blood from his lip. 

“What?” asked Sasha in disbelief while Carl and Tara gaped at him. 

“I said, we would vote!” roared Rick. “You can’t seriously be asking me to put this entire camp, all these people, my CHILDREN in danger because of this girl! We finally reached a sort of peace with Negan.” 

“Peace?” retorted Daryl. “You call giving up a quarter of all our shit, peace?” 

“Better than half!” said Rick. “And we haven’t had a single death in months now. No bloodshed. No violence. That’s progress—that’s progress worth protecting.” 

“And Francie ain’t?” asked Daryl enraged. “Francie ain’t worth protecting?” 

“The council will vote,” said Rick, his voice now devoid of any emotion. 

“Daryl!” said Denise, rushing onto the patio. “She’s asking for you. You better come—my god, what happened here!?”

Daryl flicked his eyes to Denise and stormed across the room, but not before turning to look at Rick and hiss, “Fuck you, man. You ain’t my brother.”

The porch was still. Somewhere frogs kept singing, undisturbed.

“Who’s gonna clean this shit up?” complained Tara. 

They heard Daryl’s footsteps fast and heavy on the stairs inside, then a door slam. 

“Well, not Daryl,” said Sasha, and for some reason, everyone started laughing. Everyone except Rick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Francie is quoting from Sylvia Plath's 'Mad Girl's Love Song.' 
> 
> Here it is in full: 
> 
> "I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;  
> I lift my lids and all is born again.  
> (I think I made you up inside my head.)
> 
> The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,  
> And arbitrary blackness gallops in:  
> I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
> 
> I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed  
> And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.  
> (I think I made you up inside my head.)
> 
> God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:  
> Exit seraphim and Satan's men:  
> I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
> 
> I fancied you'd return the way you said,  
> But I grow old and I forget your name.  
> (I think I made you up inside my head.)
> 
> I should have loved a thunderbird instead;  
> At least when spring comes they roar back again.  
> I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.  
> (I think I made you up inside my head.)"


	14. any woman would want to...

Stomach churning in rage and hatred, Daryl entered Francie’s room at the top of curved stairs with intensity, the door slamming hard behind him. 

From her spot on the bed, she jumped in alarm. 

“Sorry, girl,” he said quickly, kicking himself for his thoughtlessness. 

“I heard yelling,” she said, hoarsely, her voice still raw. 

He approached the bed and stroked her soft, dark hair as she gazed up at him worriedly. “Sorry, girl, that was me.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re hurt,” she said angrily. “Who hurt you?!” 

Daryl touched his lip and felt blood there. He could tell by the way his cheek was smarting that it would bruise as well. 

“It’s nothin’, Francie,” he said, sitting down next to the bed in the armchair.

“Who?” she echoed again, her eyebrows knit together. 

He hid a smile. Denise was right, she was ferocious. 

“Don’t want you worrying abut it,” he said, picking up the half-eaten stew off her nightstand. “How come you didn’t eat all this?” 

She curled her nose. “There’s tomatoes in it.” 

He snorted. 

“You eat it,” she said, a little sadly. “I’m worried about you.” 

“Worried about me?” he asked, taking a big bite of the soup. 

“Don’t want you fighting on account of me,” she said, curling her legs underneath her in a criss-cross, then wincing and thinking better of it.

“Careful with that ankle, girl,” he admonished. “’Sides, how you know it was about you?” 

She shook her head wordlessly and collapsed back onto the pillows. 

“I’m not worth it,” she said. “You shouldn’t be out here fighting ‘cause of me and staying up all night and not eating and—

“Don’t ever say that,” he snapped, slamming down the soup on the nightstand, his appetite gone. “Got it? Don’t ever say that to me again. I mean it.” 

Her eyes widened a little. “Alright,” she said softly. 

He exhaled in frustration. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap at ya...I just...don’t want you to talk like that.”

She shrugged as if to say she didn’t mind. Neither spoke for a while, him staring down at her fingers, which somehow were laced tightly in his, her staring intently at him with an unreadable expression on her face. 

“Are you—“ She began, then stopped herself, blushing a little. 

He looked up and cocked an eyebrow. 

“I just wondered...if you...well, where you’re going to sleep tonight?” She asked, blushing in earnest now and staring down at the light gray comforter. 

He shook his head in confusion. “What ya mean?” 

“I mean...are you not gonna...because of what I did last night...not gonna sleep by me anymore?”

Here, her voice broke a little. He gazed up in wonder and saw she was fighting back tears.

“You remember that?” 

“A little,” she whispered, a tear escaping. “I’m sorry, I’m so embarrassed. I can’t remember all of it...but I know, I know I tried to make you...tried to force you to do stuff.” 

He sighed and grasped her hands tighter. “Aw, baby, don’t cry. Ain’t gotta be embarrassed ‘bout nothing, y’hear?” 

She took her hands out of his and put them over her face. 

“I do,” she cried. “I do have to be embarrassed. Ashamed, even. I tried to force you to touch me and now...now you won’t even lay by me...because you think I’ll do it again...or because you’re disgusted by me. And why wouldn’t you be? I’m disgusted by me.”

Daryl did the only thing that made sense to him at the moment. He tugged off his boots, stood up, and then he lifted the blanket and sat in bed beside her.

Half-pulling her into his lap, half-letting her body recline into his chest, he shushed her over and over till she stopped crying.

“I feel so dirty,” she said, hiding her face in his chest. “I’m so ashamed.”

“You ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of, y’hear me?” He asked, tilting her chin to look up in her eyes. 

“But I...don’t know why I did that,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, you’re so...I mean obviously, I would want to, any woman would want to...you know, do that with you... I mean... you know what I mean, but—I don’t know why I did that. There must be something really bad in me now. Something evil they put in me.” 

Daryl was caught between furiously blushing at her thinking that “any woman” would want to (with him, really?) and between feeling heartbroken that she was suffering this way. 

“Ain’t nothing bad in ya, girl,” he said, pulling his fingers through her hair and holding her tight against him. “You just got confused. You just got confused. Shit…after what you went through last night…that would break most people. And you’re still here, strong as ever.” 

She shook her head a little at that, but let out a shaky breath and wiped a few tears from her face. 

He continued, “And I’ll sleep by you, I’ll hold ya, whenever you want. Just tell me you want me to, okay? ‘Cuz it would kill me to put my hands on ya if you didn’t want me to. Couldn’t ever forgive myself for that.” 

She sighed at that, almost contentedly.

But then, as if thinking of something she said, “But...I don’t want you to do that out of pity, or because you think you have to just on account of me being hurt or..."

“I ain’t here out of no damn obligation, girl,” he said, tugging her hair a little in his fingers. 

“Then why?” she wondered. “Why the hell would you want to put up with me?” 

He didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know how to answer that question to himself, let alone her. 

“I like being with you,” he said finally. “And I like…I like holding you. Ain’t no damn obligation.”

“But you said last night you didn’t want that from me.” 

He frowned. 

“When I tried to touch you, I mean. You said that. Not to touch you. That you didn’t want that.” 

Daryl felt like he was in over his head. How could he explain to this girl that while the thought of her…the thought of wrapping her hands (or, my god, her pale pink lips) around his cock was enough to make him hard as iron, he also felt sick with self-hate that he would ever think of her that way. That he would ever want her to debase herself for him, after all she had been through. Because Daryl couldn’t think of it no other way. For a woman to touch him, let alone a woman like her, it would debase her. 

“You need time to heal, baby girl,” he said gently. “But it ain’t cause I don’t think you’re beautiful.”

A few seconds passed, with him just petting her hair in a rhythmic, tender way, until she finally said: 

“Will you please tell me what happened downstairs?” 

He exhaled a little. Was hoping she forgot about that, he thought. 

“I will tomorrow,” he said. “Promise. But now...” 

“Now, sleep, girl,” she mimicked, using a deep Southern drawl. 

He harrumphed a little at that, and she giggled. 

“Know you don’t want me imitating your flat little Minnesota accent, now do ya?” 

She laughed and looked up at him. “No, I’m from Wisconsin.” 

They both stared at each other, startled.

“Oh, yeah, I’m from Wisconsin,” she said, as if pulling a long-lost memory from deep inside of her mind. 

He looked at her and smiled. “See, you’re gonna get better every day. Remember more everyday. You’re gonna be okay, girl.” 

“Is that far away from here?” 

“Wisconsin? From Virginia? Shoot, yeah. ‘Bout 14, 15 hours of a drive. Wouldn’t never have enough gas. Plus, they say the North is overrun even worse--” 

He stopped when he saw she looked mournful. 

“Sorry, girl,” he said. 

“It’s okay,” she said, bravely. “Can’t really be sad about something I hardly remember, right?” 

“You can be sad about whatever the fuck you want, girl. Shit, you earned it.”

She smiled, then surprised him by reaching up to kiss his cheek. 

“Goodnight, Daryl,” she said. 

His cheek felt warm from where her lips just were. He felt like a lamp was burning inside of him. 

“Night,” he muttered, gruffly, a smile hidden on his face.


	15. I bet you kicked his ass

“I have to be with you when you ask her,” said Rick. “We all do. The whole council.” 

Daryl and Rick stood glowering at each other, a pair of matching black eyes a testament to their scuffle the night before. After bringing in scrambled eggs and hot coffee for Frances in the morning, Denise had insisted Daryl go down and speak to Rick in the kitchen.

“You need to do this, or he is gonna come in here,” she said, meaningfully looking in Frances’s direction.   
Daryl sighed. Since waking, Francie had been clear-headed, calm and even sociable to Denise when she brought in breakfast. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb her newfound equanimity. 

So, he shuffled downstairs unwillingly, but he hoped to walk in and find Rick remorseful and with a changed mind. Instead, he found the opposite. Rick seemed even more agitated and adamant than before, insisting that they ask Francie right now what her association with the Saviors and Simon was. 

“Every single person who comes here gets asked the same questions,” said Rick. “You broke the rule. You didn’t ask those questions.” 

“She wasn’t in no state of mind to be answering no damn questions!” snapped Daryl, exhaling a stream of smoke as he did so. Denise had a strict no-smoking rule in the house, but he wasn’t in no mood for rule-following. 

“We have to find out where she is from and who she was before this,” said Rick. “I have to be with you when you ask her. We all do. The whole council.” 

The idea of interrogating Francie in front of an audience was laughable. She could barely form a full coherent sentence when it was just Denise in the room. 

“Hell no,” said Daryl, finally. “Just you. Just me. And I do the talking.” 

Rick frowned. “This ain’t up for debate, man! Think of how you would feel if Maggie or Rosita brought home some random man from the woods and wanted to risk all our lives for him! Would that be cool with you? I highly fucking doubt it, man.” 

Daryl sank into the kitchen island stool. 

“Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to know for yourself, for your own sake? Before you keep falling and falling for her?” 

“Ain’t falling for her,” retorted Daryl, sounding for all the world like a moody teenager. “It’s just she ain’t gonna talk if there is a whole pack of people there…she’ll just shut down, I know her. And then…it’s so hard to get her back.” 

His voice turned from petulant to anxious. Rick’s face softened. 

“Look, man,” he said. “I can talk to the others. See if they're good letting just us two handle it. But you know this is a democracy. They gotta agree.” 

“They’ll agree,” said Daryl angrily. 

“Sure, Carol, and ‘Chonne, and Aaron and Jesus will…but Maggie?”

“Especially not Maggie man, c’mon,” said Daryl putting his head in his hands. “Girl scares me half the time and I’m a grown-ass man.” 

At this Rick snorted a little. For a moment, the kinship between the two felt restored. 

“Let’s just do it, then,” said Rick abruptly. 

“Without asking nobody?”

“Better to ask for forgiveness than permission,” said Rick, shrugging. “Besides, I trust your judgment …if she will talk more openly with just us, then…that’s the smart move.” 

Daryl got to his feet. “Gonna go upstairs and tell her you’re coming. She does better if there is no surprises.” 

Rick nodded. “Five minutes.” 

Daryl found Francie sitting upright in bed while Denise changed her bandages. In the light of day, wearing only a sports bra, he could see that there were bruises all over chest and shoulders, and he realized with a thunderbolt of guilt it was from him holding her down the surgery. 

“She’s black and blue ‘cuz of me,” said Daryl guiltily to Denise, as if Francie couldn’t hear. 

Denise looked up at him and gave me a reassuring smile. “She’s alive ‘cuz of you. Isn’t that right, Frances?” 

The girl looked up at him and grinned. She did look healthier, stronger. She had color in her cheeks and even her eyes seemed brighter. 

“You’re black and blue, too,” pointed out Frances huskily, her voice still hoarse. 

He touched his face. “About that, girl…Look, in a few minutes, that man you saw earlier, Rick, the one with the beard…he is gonna come in here and talk with ya a little bit. Just talk, that’s all.”

“The one who did that to you?” asked Frances. 

Denise smiled knowingly and clipped off a piece of gauze with a pair of scissors. “Can’t get nothing past her.” 

“Yeah, one and the same,” said Daryl, walking around to the other side of the bed and sitting by Frances. The mattress jostled a little under his weight and Denise shot him a warning glace as she was mid-wrapping. 

“Well, I can just imagine the state in he is in then,” she said confidently, “I bet you kicked his ass.” 

Daryl lightly raised his brows and shrugged in faux-modesty. 

Denise laughed a little at that. “You got yourself a real cheerleader, here.” 

A cough at the door alerted them to Rick’s presence. Instantly, Francie’s demeanor changed. 

“Morning, Francie!” said Rick, in an over-jovial tone which made even Denise roll her eyes. 

“Can I have my shirt please?” she said to Daryl, pointing to a white t-shirt that was laying at the foot of the bed. 

He moved quickly, feeling like a jackass for not thinking of it himself, and helped her pull it over her head. Her hair got stuck inside of it, and he pulled it out for her, the motion simple but intimate enough for Daryl to flush when he caught Rick staring at him. 

“Should I stay?” asked Denise. 

Rick and Daryl both moved to answer but Denise put her hand up. “I’m asking my patient, not either of you.” 

Francie looked at the men. Then, shook her head slowly. “N-n-nooo, I think I am okay.” 

“Okay,” said Denise. “Just remember what we talked about. What’s your one thing going to be?” 

Rick and Daryl looked confused. “Huh?” asked Rick. 

“This is between us,” Denise said in irritation, looking at Francie and repeating, “What’s your one thing going to be?” 

“Daryl,” said Francie, as if the answer was obvious. 

Denise nodded, unsurprised. “Okay. And remember, inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four. And don’t be afraid to tell them to stop and that you need me, okay? The last thing I want is your blood pressure going crazy and all this progress being undone.” 

She was speaking to Francie but it was clear that her last sentence was intended for the other two in the room. She walked out of the room. Rick pulled up a desk chair from beside the small desk in the corner. 

Francie bit her bottom lip. 

"How many walkers you killed?" asked Rick.


	16. 1345 Peachtree Street

“How many walkers you killed?” asked Rick. 

She frowned. “You mean, the dead things? I don’t know. A few. Not a lot.” 

“How did you survive that way?” he asked, genuinely confused. 

“I was behind walls mostly,” she said, her voice emotionless and flat. Daryl felt like a robot had invaded her body. There was no life in her at all. 

“Where at?” 

She shook her head. “I don’t know…a few different places. First, with the army…we had tents, not walls, but…we were safe, for a while. Then, that didn’t work anymore.” 

She paused.

Rick goaded her, “Go on.” 

She tugged her hands through her hair impatiently. “It’s all just…a mess. I can’t tell if something happened a year ago or a week ago. I remember a camp where they ate people—” (Here, Rick and Daryl exchanged looks, which Francie misinterpreted as disbelief)—“No, I swear, it sounds fake, but they ate people! They ate…They ate…” 

She faltered here, an obvious lump in her throat, but she soldiered on. 

“They ate my girlfriend. I don’t remember her name,” she said in horror, looking at Daryl. “I know that must make me a terrible person. But I can’t remember her name. And, then, I thought I was gonna die too, no way out…except there was fighting. Explosions. Gunshots. I ran when I could, and I kept running until I couldn’t.” 

Daryl felt his jaw drop open in spite of himself. She was in Terminus. He could have rescued her. He could have helped her. He could have prevented her from everything awful that happened to her afterward. 

“I KNOW,” she said angrily, her voice passionate and broken, once again misinterpreting both Daryl and Rick’s shocked faces. “You think I’m fucking lying, but I’m not!” 

Daryl clutched her small bicep firmly. “No one thinks you’re lying, girl. We know about that place, too, okay? We know what they did to people.” 

She looked up and sighed in relief. “Okay, good.” 

Rick spoke up again. “How many people you killed?” 

In that moment, Daryl knew Francie would be a terrible poker player. Her face looked guilty as hell, though he didn’t know exactly why. He had a feeling she had done things she didn’t want to admit to, but he knew in his heart she had good reasons. But Rick? He mightn’t see it that way. 

“I killed those men in the woods,” she said, again back in her robot mode. “You saw Daryl. They were dead drunk and high on pills or meth or fuck knows what. They always were. But this time they forgot to tie me back up when they were done with me. When they passed out, I got the gun, and I killed them. And I’m not sorry. And I wish I could do it again. I wish I could do it every day. I wish I could—

Her voice was going faster and faster and Daryl shot Rick a “See what you’re doing to her” look. 

“Take a deep breath, honey,” said Rick soothingly, coming over and sinking down on the end of the bed. She listened. “Now hold it. 4, 3, 2, 1. Now exhale, 4,3, 2, 1.” 

Francie obeyed, locking her eyes on Rick. 

Daryl found himself wanting to beat Rick’s ass while simultaneously feeling relieved that Francie was clearly calming down from this simple process. He hated himself for not thinking of it, not remembering what Denise said. He was such a fucking idiot. 

Rick’s demeanor was calm and capable, that of a police officer who had helped countless people after they had been victimized, that of a father who was used to comforting scared kids who lived in a world of walking dead, that of a man who had been raised to know his worth and talent his whole life. Daryl had none of that. And, petty and stupid and hateful as it was, he hated that Rick was using these skills on Francie, that he was left on the outside looking-in, as always. 

“Okay?” asked Rick, after performing the breathing exercise several times. Francie nodded. 

“Who else, then?” 

Her eyes shut. “Who else what?” 

“Frances, I need you to be honest. You won’t get in any trouble. We don’t want to harm you. We have all killed people. We just need to know why you did it and who you did it to you.” 

She let out a shaky breath. “After…the cannibals, I collapsed near a town. It was all picked over. Everyone was gone. Even the dead things seemed to have moved on. But, a truck came by…there were men in it. They said would save me. They were disciples. Or apostles. Something like a cult. They kept saying this name…I can’t remember. It was such a dumb name. I was scared, but they took me.” 

Saviors? mouthed Rick to Daryl. Daryl titled his head in possible agreement. 

“It was okay for a while. They didn’t give us a lot of food. We were just workers. Slaves, really. We had to work all day in a factory. I made clothes…but…there was this little boy there. His mom was sick. Then he got sick too. They said it was the flu, but it was killing people. They said they had no medicine. But I knew…I knew that was a lie. Because whenever they got sick, they got better. Only us down in the bottom, we never got better. And the little boy…he was so sweet, and he…” 

She stopped suddenly. “Do you need to take a breath?” asked Rick. 

She shook her head. “No, I don’t care. It’s not really real, is this?” 

Rick and Daryl raised their eyebrows at each other. 

“So, someone told me, they know where this medicine is. The medicine to make the little boy—Vaughn—to make Vaughn better. They said I could go steal it, and it would save him. But it was dangerous…if you did bad things there, the man with the bat hurt you bad. He ironed you.” 

Her voice was emotionless but when she looked up at them, she started laughing. “No, I swear! He did. I saw it happen a few times. Just your face, not your whole body. The skin just comes off, it’s so weird.”

Her tone was becoming hysterical. She was smiling, but her eyes looked wild. 

“Anyways! So I was like…Do I want to be ironed? Um, no, I do not…but Vaughn” and her tone changed again from hysterical to steely and robot-like, “He was going to die. I did what the person told me, I snuck out after curfew…I went to the clinic. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I was just desperate…but a guard saw me. He was going to tell, do you understand? He was going to tell. I had to—I know—I had to—” 

“You killed him?” 

She nodded, shame coloring her cheeks. 

“He was only a kid himself. Just a teenager. I played dumb and he fell for it, acted like I was just there because I was confused…then, I…I just wanted to knock him out, like they do in the movies? But he hit the corner of this operating table and…there was so much blood. I was so scared, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t believe what I had just done. He turned into a dead thing and I still couldn’t move.” 

Her eyes had a faraway look on them, and she kept motioning with her hands, as if she was feeling the table, seeing the corpse, reliving it all again. 

“A man came in the room,” she said. “He had been ironed before. He was a bad man. He took me to be ironed too. But…the man with the bat he liked me. He said I could be his wife.” 

She shuddered in disgust. “I didn’t want to. None of them wanted to. He just bribed them and tricked them and forced them…he made me sick. When he touched me, it burned. Burned worse than an iron.” 

Daryl clenched his jaw so tight he felt like he was gonna break a tooth. 

“So they put me in this room. They took all my clothes away. There was this music, all the time, this music…like a commercial song. A old-timey song,” she clutched at her hair and pulled it, so hard that even Rick winced. “It drove me mad, all the time. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know the days or nights. I don’t know if I was in there a month or 6 months. It felt like I was born and died in that cell. Like nothing else existed. Like I didn’t exist. I didn’t exist except as a thing to be tormented, prodded, touched.” 

She started crying again. “Men would come in and touch me. I didn’t have any clothes. One of them almost…he was going to…but someone came and stopped him. He killed him right in front of me. There was blood all over me…even on my…”

Rick blushed here and Francie’s voice trailed off. Daryl felt like he was going to throw up. 

“They let me have a shower then. And that man came with me. He said I was pretty and he would take care of me. He called me…sugar, I think? Or doll. They only gave me dog food, but sometimes, he brought me things…he was always nervous, and said I had to be quick. That no one could know he helped me. After a while, he started coming every day. He told me that he loved me. He said he had a plan, a plan to fix the man with the bat. And then I could be Queen.” 

Here, she rolled her eyes a little. 

“Did this man have a mustache?” asked Rick. 

“Yeah!” she smiled. “How did you know! A big one.”

“Simon,” said Daryl. 

Her mouth dropped open. “Yesssss….Simon. Yes, Simon! Oh my god, you know him?” 

“How did you end up getting out of the cell and into the woods?” interrupted Rick. 

“There were lots of people down in the cells,” she said. “Some people only had to stay a little while. Some forever. When the music was off, we could talk to each other. One of them said he had a deal with a guard, that we could all come with him, if we wanted. He said it was our only shot.” 

She laughed and shook her head suddenly. 

“What?” asked Rick. 

“He sounded…he sounded like the dad from Home Alone,” she said. “He sounded trustworthy. Everyone was scared, most of them were too scared even to talk. They had all seen such bad things. They acted so…when the guards came, they begged, they pleaded, they said they would do anything. I heard a grown man asking to…saying he would suck…the guard’s…well, you know.” 

Daryl grunted, “We know” and then to Rick, “Is this really fucking necessary?” 

He nodded. “She’s almost done, let her finish.” 

“Am I almost done?” asked Francie, as if surprised. “I guess so. Anyways, I decided I would go, on the night he said it was time. He had keys. He said he had someone helping on the other side. But, when we ran, a guard surprised us…so I had to help...I helped kill him. He was so surprised when we killed him.” 

Here Francie shook her head in removed wonderment, as if she was recalling some movie she had seen. 

“But God punished me, that’s for sure. They were bad men,” she said, picking up that robot voice again. “Especially the one who had been waiting for us. He said I owed him. He said I was his property now. His bitch. But he would ‘share’ me if he wanted to, if he needed to get drugs or whatever. They hardly ever fed me. They raped me all the time. They tied me up, but why bother? I had nowhere to go. Who would want me? I thought about Simon, thought maybe he would look for me or help me, but…he didn’t.”

“How long were you out there?” asked Rick, his voice soft now, nothing but a gentle drawl, putting his hand on her knee. 

Daryl said nothing and did nothing, just stared at his scarred hands in his lap. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I dreamed all the time in my head. I was never really there. I went away. I had to go away and so I did. It was happening to someone else, not me. I kept hoping I would go away and come back and be dead, but I never was.” 

No one spoke, until Frances asked: “How do you know Simon? Is this all about Simon?” 

Denise was right, she doesn’t miss a thing thought Daryl. 

Rick nodded. “He said you’re his. He wants you back.” 

Francie looked up in alarm. 

“Listen, don’t get worked up…we don’t know what we are doing right now. We have to vote and—

“You’re going to give me back?” she gasped, her face going white. She looked at Daryl in terror, her whole body shaking uncontrollably, “You’re giving me back?” 

He somehow found his voice again, and grabbed her shaking body, wrapping his hands around her shoulders. “Look at me, Francie. Look at me. Breathe.” 

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no!” She flung her body wildly, trying to rip out of his grasp. “No, I won’t, I won’t! I’ll cut myself open right here before I go back, I swear to fucking God—

Rick gripped her flailing legs while Daryl held her already-bruised shoulders as gently as possible, a near mirror image of their positions two nights earlier. 

“Hold her steady, man, her stitches,” hissed Rick. 

“You think I don’t fucking know that, man?” demanded Daryl, panicked as he tried to call Frances’s name over and over, but her screams were so loud even he couldn’t hear the words. 

“You’re gonna have to fucking gag her!” yelled Rick to Denise, who had appeared in the room at some point.

“No, no, no, no!” she continued shouting, while Denise tried to no avail to bind her mouth. 

“Do something Daryl, damn it!” Denise said, helplessly, as Daryl’s grasp was too loose and gentle, allowing Francie to move with plenty of freedom. “Hold her head.” 

He wanted to sob. He didn’t want to do that. “She’s gonna fucking hurt herself!” Denise yelled angrily. 

“Give it a me, fuck!” And then ripping the handkerchief out of Denise’s hands, he lept on top of Francie, putting his knees on either side of her elbows. He let all of his weight come down, paralyzing her completely, almost knocking the wind out of her. Then, he jammed the cloth in her mouth. Her eyes look wild and horrified, tears streaming down her face. She shook her head back and forth, back and forth, and he knew she was in the throes of a panic attack, that her chest was closing in, that she couldn’t breathe, that she couldn’t breathe and he was sitting on top of her, crushing her, hurting her, breaking her. 

She gasped and gasped and thrashed, fighting and fighting until Daryl’s forehead was slick with sweat from the exertion and his body ached from being in the same position. 

Then, she gave up, her eyes going empty, expression leaving her face, all tension leaving her body. 

Her breathing slowed. 

“You can take the gag out,” said Daryl to Denise. “She’s gone.” 

“Where are you going?” asked Rick, as Daryl hopped off her and started to walk out of the room.

“Fuck you care?” hissed Daryl. “Piece of shit.” 

And then Daryl left 1345 Peachtree Street for the first time in 4 days, muttering obscenities all the way.


	17. junkyard dog

He had no plan when he left Denise and Tara’s house. He had no plan when he walked away from Francie for the first time since meeting her. There were vague images in his head: Images of violence and vengeance, of hurting everyone, anyone, but especially himself. He wanted to make others suffer and he wanted to make himself suffer, too. 

Why? He couldn’t articulate. Did it matter? “I’m a damn mystery to me,” his brother was fond of saying, and maybe that was the Dixon curse, or the curse of men like Dixons in general. Their pain was a damn mystery, so all they could do was tear at it, claw at it, spread it around, gnawing at their own flesh like an animal in a bear trap. 

So, when his heart-rate finally calmed down, when he had finally clawed and gnawed and hurt himself enough, it was with some surprise that he came to and realized where he was and what he was doing. 

He was back in the clearing where he had first found Frances. Upon arriving, he must have set to work hacking and destroying and mutilating the already rotten and infested corpses, because now the soup of their insides lay before him in a wild, frenzied mess. Deep in a haze, in an emotional blackout, with no awareness of his surroundings, no caution at being out in the open without his bow, he clearly did the only damn thing he was equipped to do. 

With the knife he kept strapped to his ankle, and his bare hands, he tore apart the men’s bodies until they were red, indecipherable matter, closer to raw ground beef than human beings. He didn’t look much better himself, no part of his flesh unmarked by blood and innards, even his hair soaked wet with their insides. 

Worst of all, he didn’t feel any better. He just felt tired.

He wanted to set their bodies on fire, but even in his enraged state of mind, he knew an open fire could attract walkers to Alexandria. 

So, he did the only thing his redneck ass could think to do. He pissed on the corpses. And he went home. 

\--..................................--

‘‘Where the FUCK you been?” Rick snapped at Daryl. 

Daryl had just exited the shower, a towel slung low around his waist, his long hair dripping water all over the bathroom he and Rick shared. 

Daryl looked up at Rick and grunted wordlessly. 

“Rosita said you came in the gates covered in blood and guts and looking like a fucking crazy person!” yelled Rick. “Tell me you didn’t do something stupid! Tell me you didn’t do something that is gonna put all our people—YOUR people—in jeopardy.” 

“Like what?” snapped Daryl, rising his mouth with water and spitting in the sink forcefully. “You mean actually do something about Negan and Simon and his merry fuckin’ band of terrorists? Yeah, that would be just awful, wouldn’t it?” 

Rick glowered at Daryl. “Please, tell you didn’t go start World War III.” 

Daryl wanted to collapse and put his head in his hands. Close his eyes and make this all this fucking shit just disappear. 

“Naw, man,” he said flatly. “I ain’t done shit. I ain’t done shit to help her. I ain’t done shit to protect her. I ain’t shit and I ain’t done shit.” 

Rick’s stance relaxed a little. “Then whose blood was it?” 

Daryl picked up a fresh t-shirt from off the towel rack behind him. 

“The men who raped her. The men in the woods,” he said, not looking at Rick as he pulled the shirt on.

“The…dead ones?” asked Rick, confusion slowly being replaced by understanding. Daryl knew Rick was flashing back to the time he came stumbling out the woods, the time he looked like a walker himself he was so covered in blood and gore, the time he wore a necklace of walker ears like a talisman around his neck.

“Yeah, the dead ones,” retorted Daryl. “I guess I ain’t changed so much at all, huh? No walker ears this time though…nothing left of ‘em after I was done.” 

Rick put his hands on his face and sighed. 

“Daryl, you shouldn’t have been out there alone like that in that state of mind,” said Rick. “You could have been bit or attacked or…anything. You ain’t got the focus you need right now.” 

Daryl rolled his eyes. “Been taking care of myself just fine for forty fucking years, Rick. I got it covered.” 

“I wish I believed that.” 

Daryl dropped his towel and pulled on a pair of dark jeans, going commando as usual. 

“Don’t you want to know how she is? You’ve been gone for hours.” 

Daryl’s hands stilled in the middle of buckling his belt. He looked up at Rick and there was such vulnerability in his eyes that Rick relented.

“She’s fine, Dar,” he said quietly.

Daryl nodded in acknowledgment and kept buckling his belt. 

“But you’ve been gone all afternoon, and she don’t want nothing to do with the rest of us—"

“She don’t want to see me, either,” interrupted Daryl, flashing back to her terrified eyes as he sat on top of her and nearly broke her arms with his body weight. “Not after what I did.” 

“You’ve been gone for three hours, Dar,” said Rick. “In that time frame, I would say she’s asked for you about…300 times. At least.” 

He looked up at Rick, guilt and shame battling on his face. 

“Is it because of what she told us?” asked Rick. “You can be honest with me, man. I ain’t gonna judge you for it. You feel differently about her now, knowing all the stuff they did to her?” 

Daryl gaped at Rick. 

“You think that’s the kinda man I am?” 

Rick shook his head and placed his hands on Daryl’s shoulders, crowding him against the wall of the bathroom.

“Hell, no,” he said. “I KNOW the kinda man you are. Y’hear me? I KNOW the kinda man you are. I just…I can’t understand why you’re shutting down here.” 

Daryl looked down at his feet. 

“Denise said to me that if this was the old world, and Francie had been attacked, she would tell her…don’t get involved with me,” said Daryl quietly. 

Rick shrugged. “Yeah, okay. I have heard victim advocates say the same thing when I was on the force. But Denise knows you’re a good man, Daryl. She is the one who   
has been going to bat for Francie this whole time and making sure we leave ya two alone.” 

“Just made me think, though,” said Daryl, exhaling deeply and looking up to the ceiling. “If this was the old world…she would run from a guy like me. Run like fuckin’ hell. And don’t say different neither, cuz you know it’s true.” 

Rick tilted his head a little, and clucked his tongue, about to speak, but Daryl interrupted. 

“Be serious, man. If this was the old world, would you EVER let a guy like me ‘round your kids? Would you ever let a guy like me pick up your little girl and feed her bottle? Let a guy like me pal around with your kid and take him huntin’? Hell, no! And you a damn liar if you say otherwise.” 

Rick said nothing. 

“So, okay, I know that. Accepted that. Fine. Felt like I earned my keep enough to where I can look people in the eye and know I’m still a man,” said Daryl. “But now…now that it matters more than it ever has before, I see that’s a lie. I ain’t a man, not the kind of man for her. Merle always told me that, told me I was never gonna be equal to y’all, that you wouldn’t never see me as kin, that he’s the only one who would ever care for me—

Rick interjected, “That’s not true—

Daryl put his hands up and stopped him. “It don’t matter. Look, I been thinking. You want to give her back, I know you do, and ya vote will prove it. Fine. Maybe the others won’t agree, maybe they will. But, it won’t stop Simon. I know it won’t cause it wouldn’t stop me. Not if he feels a quarter of the way I do about her. But I know something else. Negan ain’t never got over me getting away.” 

Rick’s face darkened. 

“You’re not suggesting what I think you are,” he said tonelessly. 

“Want to set up a meeting with Negan tomorrow,” said Daryl. “Offer to come back, do my time in the cell, long as he wants me to, long as it takes to ‘break’ me or whatever the sick bastard wants. On one condition. Francie goes free.” 

“You cannot be serious.” 

Daryl shook his head wordlessly. “Serious as shit.” 

Rick tried to grab his arm but Daryl was already pushing past him and into the hallway.

“I won’t let you do that, man,” said Rick, his voice breaking. 

“Plenty of junkyard dogs roaming around for you to tame, Rick,” said Daryl, “Won’t be so hard to replace me.” 

He left Rick stunned and speechless, then took the steps two at a time. He needed to see Francie.


	18. He’s sexy. He’s a sexy guy.

Twilight was just melting into the sky when Daryl made it to the gable room. A small kerosene lamp burned on the nightstand. Francie was on her side, facing away from the door. Her dark hair was spread over the pillow. Her body was curved into itself in the fetal position. It was a warm night, and she was wearing shorts and didn’t have the covers on. Even from the doorway, he could see black bruised fingerprints on her thighs from where Rick had held her body down with all his might. At this, he seethed, even though he knew it was irrational and Rick had helped to save her life. 

Daryl thought she might be sleeping, until he saw her push a strand of hair behind her ear. 

He crossed the carpet noiselessly. “Girl?” he asked. 

She froze. 

He waited for her to turn around, but she didn’t. 

“Girl?” he repeated. 

She continued to lay motionless, as if she was a rabbit holding still in the tall grass and waiting for the fox to walk by. 

He flushed a little and chewed his bottom lip. He stuck his hands in his jean pockets. 

“Wanted to see how you were,” he said, finally. 

Silence. 

“Did you get enough to eat?” He said, looking over at the half-empty bowl of white rice on the nightstand. “Want me to get you something else?”

The room was so quiet he could hear Denise and Tara mumbling downstairs, their voices sounding warm and light. They were happy, he thought. They had each other. They were happy. The rest of the world was burning down around them, but their cups overflowed. 

“I guess what I wanted to say was…Look, I don’t know how to say this…” he faltered. Sinking into the armchair, he put his head in hands. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he began again. “For a long time. I might not be back.” 

She rolled over at this, her fanned hair framing her delicate face like a crown, and he resisted the urge to smile. Francie, he thought. The aching feeling in his stomach that he had ever since he left her that afternoon finally went away. But the fearful look in her green eyes brought him back to the present. 

“I wanted to say…I wanted to say…” He suddenly had tears in his eyes. “Fuck, you’re fucking pretty.” 

She cocked her head. 

“I mean, that ain’t what I wanted to say…Shit.” 

She pushed herself up on her forearms so she could sit up, the effort causing pain which showed on her face. 

“What’s happening?” she asked weakly. “I don’t like this.” 

The last thing he wanted was to spark another breakdown, scare the shit out of her again, so he found courage and clarity he didn’t know he had, and said: 

“Look, girl, I gotta leave tomorrow. And I probably won’t be able to come back. So, I just wanted you to know, that…shit, to know how much I will miss you. And how I will think about you all the time. And how I won’t ever, couldn’t ever, forget you, and how I am sorry for hurting your arms so bad and I’m sorry I couldn’t stop those men from hurting—"

Here he felt a few tears spill out of his eyes, to his own shock, and he bent down to hide them, but it was too late. 

“Oh, no,” she objected, as if in pain, and then in a limping, clumsy fashion, she propelled herself out of the bed and into his lap, wrapping her arms around him. 

His arms found her instantly, pulling her as close into his body as he dared, wanting to fold her into him entirely but trying to be cautious of her bruises. His face hidden in her hair, he allowed himself the luxury of a few more tears, while she stroked his neck with soft, cool fingers. 

“Daryl, don’t cry,” she pleaded. “You don’t have to cry. Whatever I did wrong, I can fix it. I can fix it. I know the things I said earlier were bad, that I acted hysterical, and I am ashamed and I am sorry, okay? I know I owe your people everything, my life, and I haven’t been kind to them, or grateful at all and it’s not because I am not, because I just—

He pulled back abruptly and looked at her. He knew that tone and speed. That’s the way she talked right before panic would truly set in, right before he would lose her to the nightmares in her head. 

“What’s your one thing?” he asked hastily, echoing Denise’s words from earlier that day. 

She looked surprised. “You are,” she said. 

“What does that mean?” he asked, realizing he didn’t know where to go from here. 

“I’m supposed to pick one thing to focus on when I get overwhelmed,” she said. 

“And you picked me?” he asked, feeling a little shocked. 

She nodded.

His heart beat a little faster at that. But then, he focused. “Okay. So, do that. And just breathe for a while.” 

“But I want to know what I did wrong and how I can fix it and what they said downstairs because if I have to go back to Simon, I will, I don’t--”

“One thing,” he said. And hearing Simon’s name made him enraged enough for his voice to sound authoritative and angry, and perhaps for this reason, she obeyed. 

She leaned into his chest, her cheek against his pecs, her fingers tightening around the fabric on his body. 

Then, she looked up at him.

“Will you…will you not take your shirt off?” 

It was a strange way to phrase it, but he didn't ask her for a reason or flush with embarrassment or make a joke. There wasn’t the time. There wasn’t the need. He just took off his tee, pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the bed. 

She smiled a little, then snuggled into his bare flesh, her fingers running over his muscles and exploring his myriad scars and bruises. When she began tracing her finger pads along the thick dark hair which lead to his cock, he winced as if she struck him. 

Her eyes flashed to his. He was intensely aware of her body, the way her soft, curved ass was cradled on his crotch, the way her tank top and thin cotton bra revealed the outline of her hardening nipples, the way her position gave him a view straight into her cleavage, the way her skin was soft and silky and so…Francie. He was covered in goosebumps. 

“Is this how this 'one thing' is supposed to work?” he asked, hoarsely, his fingers dancing low on her hips, aching to just grip her ass. “This is therapy?”

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his low back, and kissed him on the neck, but not just a peck, a hot, needful kiss, as if she was trying to taste him, trying to inhale him. He moaned and shut his eyes, and then let his fingers trace past her ass as they ghosted up and down her thighs, her calves, her inner…

He came back to himself then. 

“Francie, stop,” he said. “Please. I can’t ask ya again, wont be able ta. So don’t make me.” 

She stopped kissing his neck and peered up at him, her heart-shaped face titled up with lustful, hooded eyes and slightly swollen lips. 

“If you’re leaving tomorrow, what’s it matter?” she asked. “You’ll never see me again. You can just do it. You don’t have to worry about my feelings or—

“I’m worried about my own damn feelings, shit,” he retorted. 

She raised her brows. 

“You need me to spell it out for ya? Hire a damn sky-writer? I fuckin’ love ya girl, and it’s killing me that—” 

He stopped abruptly and then stood up, picking her out of his lap and laying her in the bed. 

“Let me just hold ya one last night,” he said, descending on the mattress next to her. “Kay? I don’t…I can’t do more than that to ya right now. Mind ain’t right.” 

And whether he meant her mind or his, he didn’t know. 

“If you love me,” she asked uncertainly, unbelieving, “Then why are you leaving me? Why did you run off this afternoon after I told you all that stuff?” 

He pulled her on to his chest and stroked her hair. He didn’t speak for a moment, then said simply: 

“Ran off to go find the men who hurt ya in the woods. Tore their dead rotting bodies to such tiny bits even a walker wouldn’t know it used to be human.” 

She gasped and looked up at him. 

“Leaving cause it’s the best way to protect ya. Only way, far as I can tell.” 

She pushed herself up, drawing her knee dangerously close to his dick as she half straddled him, the ends of her hair tickling his chest. 

She shook her head violently, as if trying to flick away a wasp from flying close to her face. 

“Are you fucking serious?” 

“Fucking A.” 

“What does it mean, you’re doing this to protect me? You’re going to fight Simon?” 

“No,” he said, finding himself growing hard in spite of himself. Angry and confused as she might have been, she was vibrating with agitation right near his dick, her yoga shorts barely covering her ass and her pussy warm and soft against his thigh. 

“Going to give myself to Negan,” he said, realizing she had been staring at him and waiting for an explanation. “The man with the bat…he had me for a while, in his cells. He wanted to break me. Wanted me to make me one of his Saviors. But I escaped.” 

“You were in the cells?” gasped Francie, her hands flying to her mouth. “No, Daryl, did he hurt you?” 

He snorted a little. “Hell yea, girl. What you think? You know what it’s like. But not…not the way they hurt you.” 

She kept shaking her head back and forth, her mouth agape. 

“And now, now you wanna go back there?” she demanded. 

He gave a short nod.

She leaned forward and traced his cheekbone with her index finger, then lightly kissed the bruise Rick had left there. 

“No offense, Daryl,” she said, “But I will kill you myself before I let that man lock you up down there.” 

Her tone was even, and almost gentle, but her expression was intense. He raised his eyebrows. He ‘bout thought she meant it. 

“What you gonna do? Suck on my neck till I die?” he harrumphed, but he had to admit she was flattered she didn’t want him to go. Still was goin’, though, of course. 

“I’ll suck on your cock ‘till you can’t see straight enough to get to the door, how about that?” 

Her voice was lustful but teasing, and he laughed even as he felt blood rush directly to his now erect cock. 

She became somber. “Daryl, I mean it, I’m not letting you go. I wouldn’t let you go for any reason, but let alone for me. He’ll kill you. And if he doesn’t, you’ll wish he did.” 

Daryl knew that. He had been in Negan’s cells. He knew. He knew and he didn’t give a damn. The only thing that would really kill him was never getting to see her again. Smell her again. Stroke her dark hair or hear her soft, sweet little voice again. 

“Are you listening to me?” 

He reached up and rubbed his thumb along her pouting lips. “I hear ya, baby girl. But I ain’t listening.” 

She shook her head again, this time as tears started to stream down her cheeks. 

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I’m telling you not to do this. I already decided before you came in, hours ago, I decided…I decided I’ll go to Simon.” 

His eyes narrowed, “Fuck you mean?”  
Her face was clouded with a million warring emotions. She opened and shut her mouth a few times. Then, as if she had decided something, she pushed off of him. 

“I thought about it. About Simon. And what he did for me. And how kind he was. And he made me laugh. And he…And I…Well, I think I-I could be happy with him,” she said, and her voice was shaking now, her expression pained. “In fact, he is handsome…and muscley…and…”

He raised an eyebrow. She could not be serious. She really did have the worst poker face he ever saw, he thought. 

“I-I mean it! He’s sexy. He’s a sexy guy,” she rambled. “I COULD enjoy it, I could, I bet he’s very good in bed and—

Here Daryl put his hand over her mouth. “Okay, that stopped being funny really fast,” he said, grinning a little. 

“What do you mean! You knew I was—I mean—”

“Girl, you’re a shit liar. And there ain’t no fucking way in hell I am ever letting you go back to Simon and his men, y’hear?” he said, and his voice was firm and unyielding. “And, now that I think about it, the fact that you just tried to trick me into doing that is really pissing me off. So, drop it, Francie.” 

She lay down on his chest, seemingly defeated. 

He wondered how the hell he was going to be able to get any rest when his cock was so hard, when a loud explosion rocked the house and split the air. 

Daryl and Francie barely had time to sit up in shock before another loud explosion vibrated in the air. 

“Saviors,” said Daryl, grabbing his shirt. “Shit, shit, shit. DENISE! Denise! TARA!” 

He roared for the women while he tugged his boots on, Francie staring at him in frozen shock on the bed. 

“God damn it!” he swore, realizing he left his knife in the bathroom of Rick’s house.

Denise came bounding into the room, clad only in a button-down nightie.

“My bow, downstairs,” he said, “Gotta get it. Where’s Tara?”

“She just left ten minutes ago for watch!” she cried, looking helpless and terrified. 

Shit, he thought, then barked: 

“Get Francie socks and shoes…and real pants and a jacket. I’m going to get my bow. I’m taking her out of here.” 

Denise’s mouth fell open. “You can’t! She can’t even walk.” 

“NOW, damn it!” 

Another explosion tore through the night. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said to Francie, halfway out the door. Then, turning to look at Denise, who was stunned and motionless, a panicked look came on his face. 

“Second thought,” he said, rushing back in the room and picking her up, her legs wrapping around his back. “Taking ya with me.” 

“What about Denise?” asked Francie, whispering in his ear as she stared at the doctor, who was now pacing by the windows as if in a daze. 

“Ain’t her they want,” said Daryl, “C’mon.” 

Clomping out of the room and down the stairs in his heavy boots, he asked her, “You ever rode a bike?” 

“Yeah, when I was a kid.” 

He scoffed. “No, a damn motorcycle.”

She shook her head. “Those things can kill you.” 

He flopped her down on the couch while he strung his bow around his shoulder. Seeing Tara’s flannel on the headrest, he tossed it to her. “Only thing you gotta know about it is: Hold tight, and let me do the rest.”

She nodded, wide-eyed, buttoning the flannel with shaking fingers. 

“Here,” he said, tossing her a pair of gray sheepskin boots that were near the back door. She painfully put them on her injured feet and swollen ankle. He appraised her and nodded. 

“Ya legs will be cold, but we gotta go NOW.”

With that he picked her up, bridal-style, opened the back door, and then the night swallowed them whole.


	19. one of them can take you places

One of the most shocking differences between the old world and the new was the quality of darkness. No electric lights of any kind gave an animalistic depth to the night—reminding one of dirt or fur or roots. 

But mostly it reminded one that the faux safety of the old world (which could be ignited with nothing other than the flip of a light switch) was gone, and gone forever. Like something foolish or childish they once believed in (Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy) that feeling of safety and magic was gone, and the memory of it only served to make the new darkness even more punishing. 

So, when Daryl and Francie walked out into the exploding night, it was a night of fur and fang, one that hummed with danger even without the sounds of fire and gunshots in the air. 

He already had the plan of escape carefully routed in his mind. He hadn’t laid awake for the last several nights merely counting the cracks in the ceiling or listening for Francis’s labored breathing. As a Dixon, and a Dixon in the apocalypse no less, he was always, always, always expecting nothing but the worst, and as such, had mindfully constructed what he would do if any one breached the walls of Alexandria and came for Francie:

First, get to where he kept his bike, in the garage at the last house on the end of Cherry Blossom. No one stayed there, because the townhome had once caught fire some months ago and become unusable. But sometimes he crashed there when he wanted to be alone, and he kept the bike in the garage because he liked to come and go as he pleased. Cherry Blossom was at the far end of the development, making the roar of his bike less obtrusive and obvious to the residents, most of whom still made him skittish. 

It was also near a hidden spot in the walls where he could push his bike through, if he didn’t feel like going through the front gate. Daryl didn’t know why he was still such a private and even secretive person after all this time, why he still needed walls of his own and escape routes he kept close to chest, but both would serve him well now. 

Second, after getting Francie out, he would scout out which direction looked safest—and depending on that, he could take her to two or three possible locations which he and Aaron had established during their numerous hikes around the area. They were nothing more than shacks, one of them an abandoned ranger hut which would be their best bet, provided the road southwest was clear. 

Third, he would wait. Wait and watch and wait. Come to think of it, that was the end of his otherwise foolproof plan. He wasn’t sure it would ever be safe to bring her back here, not if his family had decided they would rather bargain with her than risk angering Negan and the Saviors. 

And yet how could he meet with Negan with her in tow? There was no way he would ever walk her into the walls of the Sanctuary. Not even if Negan swore on his damn bat that no harm would come to her. 

And why the hell had he told he loved her? Of course it was true, had been true since the moment he met her, it felt like, but now having said it aloud, he felt like he made a promise he couldn’t keep. Like he laid a claim on her that wasn’t his to lay. What good would knowing that he loved her do if he was starving to death in a cell miles away? It would better if she didn’t know, better if she forgot he existed altogether. 

With these thoughts scattered loosely in his mind, he shuffled cautiously through the inky night down towards Cherry Blossom. As excepted, he found nearly every home silent and shuttered, the soft residents no doubt paralyzed with fear and simply waiting for Rick and the others to sort the violence out for them. He felt like spitting at this. In this world it seemed there were the ones who were willing to shed blood and those who weren’t, and he couldn’t abide the latter. Especially not when they were willing to offer Francie as a sacrificial lamb to keep their own hides safe. 

For her part, Francie was overwhelmingly obedient ever since the first explosion. He would have expected her to react like Denise, with paralyzed terror or shock, especially after all she had been through and especially considering it was her life on the line. But there was no resistance to his barked demands or breakneck pace. Indeed, it seemed as though she was almost reading his mind, readjusting her weight or holding frozen in his arms the very moment before he would require it. 

So it was that he placed her on the stoop and proceeded to pull out his bike from the garage with perhaps a little less anxiety than the situation was due. They were so close to getting out, and she was so calm and so pliant, that it took his breath away when a walker approached from behind, hands thick and decaying around his shoulders before he even heard a damn step. 

The next moments were just snapshots in his mind—grabbing, cussing, falling, his shoulder hitting the cement with a depressing crack, the smell of the thing on top of him, and then... 

It fell apart all over him. Over and over, flesh and teeth and bits of coarse, Halloween-like hair. Clearing his eyes with his hands and shoving himself off the ground in disgust, he saw Francie, bitty Francie, on top of the thing’s back, tearing and bashing him apart with a rock from the driveway’s planter. 

It took him what felt like a full minute to understand what was happening—that she had leaped on top of this dead thing and smashed it to bits, spraying its brains and blood and God knows what else in every direction, including all over her—putting her own life in very real danger all because of a solitary walker he happened to miss. 

He should have been grateful. He should have been relieved. He should have been proud. 

He wasn’t any of these things. He was enraged. And Francie knew it, he could tell from the shrinking, confused way she met his eye and the subdued way she hobbled back in her original spot as he silently pushed the bike out of the hole in the wall. As Daryl angled the bike around the metal sheeting, he heard a loudspeaker crackling in the distance. That only incited his rage further. Negan. 

“Get up, then,” he said roughly to Francie, and picking her up in his arms, he carried her through the opening and placed her on the bike. Putting the metal partition back in place, he heard Negan’s laugh echo over the loudspeaker, the empty, quiet streets a perfect audience for his brand of bullshit. 

Rolling his eyes under his hair, Daryl resisted the urge to hop on the bike and haul ass. Instead, with silent precision, he walked Francie on the bike, crunching down the gravel trail on foot. If she noticed that he was on high alert, constantly whirling around at every noise, expecting to see another walker stumbling out of nowhere, she said nothing. 

He felt like a fool. One, for being dumb enough to let an errant walker (who must have stumbled through the gates whenever Negan and his men set off their explosives) nearly kill him (he, who had killed hundreds of them without barely batting an eye), and two, for then being dumb enough to find her rescuing him enraging rather than flattering. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate not being walker chow. But, things could have gone, should have gone, very, very differently, and he was all too aware of that. For a weakened girl who could barely walk, with fresh stitches and no weapon, to take down a walker with her bare hands (even if he was distracted by the promise of fresh meat) was a near improbability. And Daryl well knew this because he had seen—rough estimate—about 35 women and girls get eaten alive by walkers. She was so close to death and she didn’t even seem to realize, seem to care. That shook him to his core. 

And, then there was the other thing. The whole failing at a being a man thing. Couldn’t avoid that.

He didn’t like to think of himself as a sexist. As a chauvinist like Merle. As a misogynist like his daddy. (Was there a difference? He wasn’t sure. Merle never would lay a hand on a woman, but you can commit violence without words). But, despite his wish to be better than his blood, and despite having nothing but admiration and feelings of kinship for Maggie, and Michonne, and Sasha, and Tara and all the countless other women he fought beside, he had to admit that seeing Francie wild and powerful and warrior-like scared him. Terrified him. 

Because, if she could do that (and clearly, she could), she didn’t need him. As far as he could tell, the one thing, the only thing he could offer a woman was the fact that he was built for this world in a way most other men simply weren’t. That he could slaughter and eke out survival for a woman who would be willing to overlook his other obviously missing qualities. But, there was so much to overlook, he reasoned, especially for a woman like Francie, and yet again he failed to protect her. 

Failed to do even the most basic task to ensure that she could survive one more night, failed as a man, failed as a mate. 

Self-hate came easy to Daryl. Like riding a bike. At least one of them could take you places. 

He hopped on and started the machine, figuring they were a safe distance out, or as far as he dared to continue at this speed.

Turning around, he noted that Francie’s eyes were weak and tired, or maybe just sad. 

“Be there soon,” he said, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone but sounded empty even to his ears. 

She nodded and gave a small, half-smile. 

He accelerated, heading southwest, one headlight and a mild sprinkling of stars his only guide. She laid his cheek on his back and held on.


	20. It's a mess

When they got to the ranger hut, the first thing Daryl did was make sure that the damn place was still sealed shut and free from walkers. So satisfied, he set Francie down on the cot, which Aaron had wisely spread with a sleeping bag and a few blankets. 

He then went and got a first aid kit down from the dusty bookshelves. He was worried her stitches broke apart, but in lifting up her shirt, he saw that her bandage still looked dry, albeit dirty. In fact, her whole body was covered in gore and god knows what, so opening a package of wet wipes (again, thank god for Aaron, because Daryl never would have thought of hygiene items for the hideout), he started quickly wiping all the guts off her. 

“Take ya shirt off,” he said, flatly. “It’s a mess.” 

She nodded somberly, not meeting his eyes, and tried to undo the buttons, but her hands were shaking too bad. He felt his heart pull at that. He was being an ass and he didn’t know how to stop. He was too angry with himself, too disgusted. 

“Lemme,” he said, pushing her fingers away and starting the process himself. Her tank top and bra was not in much better shape. 

“I don’t want it on me,” she said brokenly. Standing up and wincing, she wiped frantically at the brain matter in disgust, yanking off her tank top and shorts, and then reaching for her bra.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, grabbing at her hands, which were uselessly tugging at the hooks behind her back. “Stop a second. It’s okay.” 

“No, no, get it off,” she said, shaking and twisting like Merle did the time he was tweaking and convinced that centipedes were crawling on him. 

“Damn it, girl, it’s just blood, okay?” he said, “I got some on me, too. Ain’t nothing!” 

He held up the end of his stained t-shirt to try and make her feel better, but she only shook her head.

“I can smell it, Daryl, please get it off me!” 

His heart broke a little at the helpless need in her words. “I’ll help ya, I’ll help ya, if you want. But…” 

“But what?” 

“What the hell ya gonna wear, girl?” 

She frowned at that and sank back on the bed, and started crying. 

“Hey…I’ll find something, kay? Bet Aaron packed a shirt or two around here, if I know him,” he said.

But as he looked over the small cabin, he turned in surprise and saw that she had somehow unhooked her bra. Her breasts were small and sweet like her, with dusty pink nipples, and he must have made a small sound because then she was looking up at him. The pale, untouched skin stood in marked contrast to the brackish-colored blood on the rest of her torso, but that did nothing to quell the lust suddenly pumping through him. 

“Girl,” he just said, though it came out as more of a moan than he intended. 

“Help me clean up,” she mewled, and he nodded seriously. 

Sinking to her feet by the bed, he held out wipes to her, and together, they began wiping all the walker guts off, Daryl consciously trying not to stare at her beautiful tits (Jesus Christ) right in front of his face. It was not an easy task, nor was the task of removing the walker bits, as the blood had dried, and required studious effort to dislodge. Not to mention, the weakly flickering kerosene lamp made seeing anything in detail difficult. But he could see that each bit that was cleansed from her body calmed her, so with earnest effort he applied himself to the task, realizing that this was so much more than skin-deep. 

At first, Daryl avoided her breasts and her belly, instead wiping her arms and her calves and her feet, paying special attention to be gentle on the bruised fingermarks left by him and Rick. But at some point, she stopped assisting him, whether because she was tired or upset, he didn’t know, so he found himself tenderly wiping her chest (Focus, focus) and face and even folding the top of her underwear down an inch to wipe away every inch of the walker. He didn’t know how long the whole process took. Fifteen minutes or thirty or even an hour, but by the time he was done, her skin was glistening and clean, and her panic had subsided. Indeed, she seemed very near purring, looking like a cat who had been petted into a passive haze. 

“Ya all clean now, girl,” he said, and this time when he spoke, the self-hatred and disgust was no longer making his words hard and bitter, replaced instead by half-restrained lust and wholehearted tenderness. 

She laid back and shut her eyes, shivering lightly, still half-dressed.

Resisting the urge to gaze at her naked body gleaming in the lamplight, he started going through the cabin looking for clothing and supplies. He found a box of marshmallow flavored granola bars, and a blue Gatorade, when he heard her talking to herself. 

“The stars go waltzing out in blue and red…arbitrary blackness gallops in,” she whispered, and he looked over to see her running her fingers over her bandage on her belly. 

His eyes narrowed a little. He wanted to get her dressed. Get some food in her. Keep looking, has to be something here, he thought…and sure enough, there, at the top of a bookshelf, half-hidden by a black trashbag, was a tall pile of clothes. Grunting, he pulled himself up on the lower shelf and heaved the heavy lot down on to the bed. 

Francie didn’t budge. “I fancied you’d return the way you said, but I grow old and I forget your name,” she continued, the damn words getting under his skin like the song from Negan’s cells, but in a different way, a way that made him feel heartbroken and terrified. 

Focus, pussy, he heard his brother say. Daryl started sorting through the pile of clothes, being careful to shake out each item in case spiders had made a home there. Daryl couldn’t believe Aaron had left so many changes of clothing, until he realized that they were probably from the ranger service, when he held up a dark brown tee which read “Pinnacle Natural Area Preserve.” 

“Hell yea,” he said. “It even has a cool bear on it.” 

Francie jumped a little at the sudden sound of his voice, then looked up at him as if she was surprised he was there. 

“Sit up a little for me, girl,” he said, and he help her pull it on. It was too big of course, but not very, and it was soft and clean. Two things which made it perfect for Francie. 

He kept picking through the pile, finding a camo flannel and a pair of gray sweats which he also helped her put on. But even dressed, he found she was still lightly shaking. 

“Gonna shut this light off,” he said. He had hid the bike well in the trees, and he didn’t think it was likely anyone would wander by, but the small light could still attract walkers or worse. No risks, he thought. Not again. 

She opened her eyes a little more. “Dark?” she asked fearfully. 

“Lay by ya,” he said. “Be okay, girl.” 

The room went black. He shuffled carefully onto the small cot, trying not to jostle her too badly, though he reasoned an hour on his bike was probably jostled her plenty. 

“Thank you, Daryl,” she said, when he snuggled in next to her and pulled her against his chest. He blushed in the darkness. 

And then, after a beat, she asked, small hands clutching his shirt, “Are you still mad at me?” 

His eyes widened at that. 

“Ain’t never been mad at ya, girl,” he said, but he knew he sounded rough and hard, and just like his brother. “But ya oughta have minded when I told you to stay still.” 

She tsked at that. 

“It was gonna eat you,” she said, looking up at him, her face only faintly visible in the dark. “It was grabbing you.” 

At this her voice sounded appalled, angered, as if she still couldn’t believe the gall of this walker. He hid half a smile at that. 

“Always happens,” he said, lying only a little bit. “I could have handled it.” 

And he could have. He thought. Maybe. Probably. 

“I know,” she said, faithfully. “But I just got so mad.” 

He shook his head in the darkness and stroked her hair with his hand. She made it sound like she was defending him at a cocktail party or something. The casual way she almost threw her life down for his made his chest hurt. 

“Wanna keep ya safe is all,” he said finally. “Wasn’t mad at ya. Mad at myself, is all.” 

He felt her lips on his neck, and he froze. “Don’t be,” she said gently. “You always keep me safe. You take better care of me than anyone ever has, anyone ever could.” 

He huffed a little at that, the ache in his chest somehow getting bigger and smaller at the same time. 

“Shit,” he said. “You’re the one who saved my life tonight. And instead of thanking ya, I acted like a damn asshole.” 

She said, in a detached, pained voice, “I’m only here right now, and not in that cell again, because of you.” 

He gripped her tightly at that, wrapping his other arm around her waist. 

“You ain’t going back to the cells,” said Daryl, “Already been over that. My plan hasn’t changed. Just need to wait until Negan and Simon are ready to negotiate, that’s all.” 

The idea of Negan negotiating with anyone, especially him, sounded ludicrous even to his ears, but Francie didn’t say anything. 

“Do you think the others are okay?” 

Daryl’s stomach sank. He had been trying to avoid that thought ever since they left. If this had been just a week ago, he would have been at the front lines defending his family, not slipping out the back. He knew he should feel guilty. And he did, somewhat, but mainly because of Judith and Carl and…

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” she said, once again reading his energy before he even had to say a word. 

“You’re good, girl,” he said. “I’m worried about them, but you’re most important now.” 

He hadn’t planned to say that, hadn’t expected to say that, hadn’t even been aware of the thought before it came out, but once he said it…he realized of course it was true. 

He felt her smile against him. 

“But don’t ya ever try and fucking take on a walker again when ya can’t barely stand, ya hear?” he said in faux irritation. 

“Mmmmhmm,” she murmured meekly, or tiredly, or both and he shut his eyes and let out a ragged sigh. 

“Night, girl,” he said to the darkness, and then, he let sleep blot him out.


	21. you would have hated me

He was half-asleep when he felt his body become tense with a rush of adrenaline. 

His eyes rushed to open. Francie was warm and snuggled tight against his body, but in the early morning light, he could see that her eyes were open and watchful as well. 

She was listening to something. Frowning, he began to sit up, but she shook her head and grabbed him by the bicep with both hands. 

A low moan outside and a scraping noise lightly rattled the cabin. Walker trying to get in. That must have been what woke them up, he thought. 

He tried to sit up again and she pulled at his arm. “Don’t open it,” she whispered in a panic. “What if it’s a trick?” 

He frowned. Gently, he tugged his bicep out of her grasp, and put his fingers to his lips. He lifted his crossbow and walked on bare feet across the small cabin, not making a sound. He moved aside the flimsy plaid curtain to peek outside. For a moment, he saw nothing, then the moan caught his ear again and he turned to the other direction. There it was. 

“Just a damn walker,” he said. “By his lonesome, looks like.”

Francie bit her lip and pulled her camo flannel more tightly around her. “It will go away.”

He raised his brows a little. “Nah, I got it,” and ignoring her protests, he ripped open the door and put a bolt through the dead man’s head. The walker didn’t even have time to react. 

Daryl came back inside to pull his boots on. He wanted to drag the walker away from the cabin, so if anyone walked by, it wouldn’t be as obvious people were holed up here. 

He noticed Francie watching him while he did his boot laces. “What you staring at, girl?”

She shook her head wordlessly. 

He went outside and half-kicked, half-dragged the decaying corpse away from the cabin, but not so far away that he couldn’t see the door. Turning to take a quick piss, he zipped his pants back up and entered the cabin. 

Francie had found the Gatorade and was taking a small sip. She was still staring at him with that odd look. He cocked a brow at her.

“It’s just…you seem like you do that a lot,” she said finally, shrugging at him and offering him the Gatorade. 

“I do,” he said. “What ya mean? Of course, I do. We all do.”

She paused and shook her head. “I mean, yeah…but no. That’s not really what I meant. I meant…you seem at home here, in a weird way. I’ve been noticing it, and just wondering about it, that’s all.”

“Wondering?”

“Just about you…and everything I don’t know about you,” she said. “Like how come you seem more comfortable and at home here, then you did in that nice house with your family.”

He raised his eyebrows. 

She started to stutter a little. “I-I just mean your energy feels different here…most people would be scared or on edge, but it’s the opposite for you. You felt that way there. You felt that way all the time. But here you don’t. Or, if you do…it’s not as loud, maybe. As obvious. I mean.”

She was rambling a little, and she looked a little nervous. Hell, she was making him damn nervous, too, both because he worried about her panic attacks, and because she was picking up things about him that he thought he hid pretty damn well, or at least well enough that a sick, near comatose girl in bed shouldn’t have picked up on. 

He debated how to answer, what she wanted to hear from him. Decided to go with his gut, which was telling him this was okay…it was okay that she knew stuff about him. More than okay, and he had to even kind of admit he liked that she could read him so well. He was so used to being a closed book, to people’s negative assumptions and misconceptions about him. Had been that way his whole life, since before he even grew into a man. But he had always been too angry (and sad, if he was honest) to fight back against it, to make his true self known. So it was nice to be around someone like Francie, who could see into a person, feel their energy, with her strange, simple knack, as easily as if she was reading a book. 

“Kinda grew up like this,” he said finally. “Hunting and all that. Middle of nowhere. Rural area. Took care of myself a good bit. Had a big brother, too. But he…he’s gone now. Walkers got him.”

Her face lost its nervousness and looked only tender. “I’m sorry, Daryl.”

He shrugged, and sat down on the bed by her, opening the box of granola bars. 

“Was he a good brother?” she asked. 

He looked at her a little funny and handed her a granola bar. “'Makes ya ask that?”

She blushed a little and bit her lip. “Your back…I mean.”

Daryl huffed. He forgot she had seen that. Seemed ages ago now, though it was only a few days past. 

“Naw, that was my daddy. Merle had the same…same marks.”

Francie looked down at her lap. A heaviness seemed to come over her. 

“He was a good brother,” said Daryl, finally. “He made me hard. He did his best, anyway. He knew I needed to be.”

“That was his gift to you,” said Francie, meeting his eyes. 

Daryl held the gaze, surprised at his own damn self for being able to. He nodded. 

She smiled a little and started unwrapping her granola bar. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothin’, just…” she sighed. “You’re tough but you sure as hell aren’t hard.” 

He blushed a little and shook his head. 

“I mean, no offense to…Merle,” she said, giving him a sweet smile. 

“Hell, he would laugh his ass off if he heard ya say that I wasn’t hard,” said Daryl, opening a bar as well. “And agree wit’ ya quicker than anything.” 

She grinned and took a huge bite. But, as if thinking of something, her face darkened a little. 

“What now? Wheels are churning a lot this morning.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I feel like my brain is kind of….unclouding a little. I keep remembering things. Thinking of things.”

He grunted in approval. “That’s good,” he said. 

“So…is it okay if I ask you more questions?” She asked, tugging on the ends of her hair and twisting it around her fingers. 

“Yeah, if ya keep eating,” he said, feeling a little amused but also slightly anxious about this turn of events. A clear-headed Francie was a good thing…wasn’t it? 

“What did you do?” She asked. “For a job?”

He frowned a little at that and tore into his bar.

“Didn’t do shit,” he said. “Next question.”

Her eyebrows raised. But she seemed to decide not to push the point. 

“Did you have a wife o-or kids or anything?” she asked in a huge rush, making him nearly choke on his granola bar from the unexpected question. 

He shook his head. “You think I would have a family and not take care of ‘em?” he asked, no, snapped. 

She froze. 

“What do you mean?”

“I just said I didn’t do shit,” he bit out. “So why the hell would you think I had a family?”

She shook her head, and a sort of confused, hazy look came back in her eyes. Shit, he thought. He exhaled angrily. God damn, could he go one day without fucking up? 

“Girl, if you knew me back then…you would have hated me, is all,” he said finally, lifting a cautious hand and stroking her dark hair back from her face, tugging it a little to make her look up at him. 

She cocked her head at him. “No way,” she said. 

He didn’t want to convince her otherwise, wrong as she might have been. “What about you?” he asked instead. 

“Me, what?” she said.

“Boyfriend, husband, kids?” He asked casually, even as his stomach tightened at the thought of what she might say. 

She got a far-off look on her face. 

“That’s kinda what got me thinking…last night I dreamed about a ring. A ring on a necklace,” Here she touched the delicate hollow of her throat. “I used to wear it all the time. I can’t remember everything…but fireworks, and champagne and a big tower all lit up in the sky…in another place.”

He tensed up, suddenly feeling jealous, and stupid on top of it. “You were…engaged?” 

She shook her head. “N-n-no, I don’t think so. I don’t think I said yes. But he wanted me to wear the ring. Change my mind. So I had it on the chain…I think he lived in New York. Sam. Yes, Sam. We met in college. Paris! Paris is where we went. He asked me to marry him right by the big..big…Eiffel Tower, right?” 

She smiled a little, as if proud of being able to remember all that. Daryl was proud too, or at least happy to see she was on the mend, but the idea of Francie in college and being chased by some preppy kid who took her to Paris and bought her champagne and expensive jewelry made him feel like shit. Made him feel like some dumb, lumbering redneck in comparison. 

She stopped smiling when she saw his face, as if reading his mood. 

“Sorry,” she said. “You’re probably so worried about your family, and here I am gloating because I can remember some dumb geographical fact.”

He shook his head. “Nah, girl,” he said, relieved that she couldn’t read his mind well enough to know what he was really thinking. 

And then he was about to urge her to eat another granola bar when the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. 

“What?” she asked, confused. He shook his head at her and stood up and grabbed his bow. 

“Someone’s coming. Someone living.”

“Are you sure? I don’t hear—

And then the sound of footsteps crunching on dead leaves became unmistakable, even to her untrained ears. 

“Stay in bed and stay down,” ordered Daryl. 

Then, a voice came loud and clear through the old cabin walls. 

“Let me in, man! C’mon, I heard you have a girl stashed in here.” 

A relieved smile on his face, Daryl swung open the door.


	22. Kitten

“Fuck, am I glad to see you,” said Daryl, giving a warm embrace to Aaron. 

Aaron responded happily in turn. “You okay?”

“Hell, I’m fine…how’s…how’s everyone?” Daryl said, his jovial mood disappearing as he struggled to meet Aaron’s eyes. 

“Everyone’s fine, Dar,” said Aaron, giving him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “Lots of damage to our walls, but no one hurt. Well, Eugene claims to have pubic lice, but that seems unrelated to Negan’s visit last night.” 

Daryl snorted at that. “C’mon in, man,” he said. “Check on Francie.”

The two men entered the cabin where Francie sat motionless on the bed. 

“Just Aaron,” said Daryl. “He’s from our group. He’s good, okay?”

Aaron gave a patient smile to Francie, who was clutching her flannel around herself and eyeing him with suspicion. 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “I was hoping to meet you soon. Just too bad it’s under these…circumstances. Eric and I wanted to have you over for dinner. He had some beautiful ravioli planned for whenever you were feeling better.”

Francie looked at Daryl. Her expression was adorably confused. 

“Here, I brought you something to eat, and some water,” said Aaron, reaching into his knapsack. “I figured you would be here, or at the shack near the gas station. So, as soon as I could, I packed a bag and came…”

Here his voice trailed off a little. 

“Maybe we should talk outside,” said Daryl, taking some of the items out of Aaron’s outstretched hands. “Let Francie eat some of this…whatever this is.”

“Pumpkin bread,” said Aaron. “Vegan and gluten-free.”

Francie raised her eyebrows and started to undo the saranwrap. 

“C’mon,” said Daryl, tugging Aaron outside.

Shutting the door behind him, he and Aaron exchanged a look.

“Just get it out.” 

“I have a letter for her,” said Aaron. “I’m supposed to bring it to her. They knew you had her. Negan knew. Simon knew. I don’t know…but they knew. And they knew you had taken her someplace. After they tore the whole place apart, that is.”

Daryl shut his eyes and groaned. “Is everyone really—

“I swear, everyone’s fine. Scared. Rattled, and cleaning up a huge mess,” he said. “But fine.” 

Daryl’s eyes narrowed. “Did you say you had a damn letter for her?”

“From Simon,” said Aaron, watching calmly as Daryl recoiled in disgust. 

“God damn it, man!” he hissed. “Don’t tell me you brought it here?!”

Aaron’s eyes flickered to the door. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” hissed Daryl, pushing the door open. Sure enough, there was Francie, the contents of the knapsack spilled on the bed and a piece of yellow notesheet paper half-open in her hand. Her face was expressionless. 

“Give that to me!” snapped Daryl, sounding much more aggressive than he intended to. She jumped, but a moment later than she should have. 

“Simon wrote me a letter,” she said, shaking her head as if confused, continuing to open the letter. 

“I know,” said Daryl. “Give it to me. You shouldn’t be reading it.”

“But it’s addressed to me,” said Francie, smiling a little with a glassy look in her eyes. “And I am me, aren’t I?”

Daryl shot Aaron a “See?!” look and snatched the letter out of Francie’s hand. She winced, and gazed down at her index finger. A drop of blood appeared. 

“Like in Sleeping Beauty. Do you think it’s a sign?” she asked Aaron, and then adopting a dramatic tone, she quoted, “Before the sun sets on her 16th birthday, she shall prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel…”

Breaking into a giggle, she said, “Although I guess I’m like…25? And this is just a paper cut.”

Daryl stuffed the notepaper in his pocket and picked her shaking hand up in his. Without caring he had an audience, he picked up her lightly bleeding finger, put it in his mouth and gently sucked on it. Her eyes widened. 

“Ain’t no damn sign, girl,” he said, releasing her finger. “Just me being a dumbass again.” 

Aaron cleared his throat. “I know you’re…dealing with a lot here, Daryl, I can see that…”

And Daryl knew he was referring to Francie’s mental state, which he just saw ebb and flow like a wave on the beach right before him. 

“She’s fine,” said Daryl, not liking that look in Aaron’s eye, the way he was looking at Francie like she wasn’t totally sane. 

“Mmm,” murmured Aaron, lost in thought. And, then coming back to himself, he said, “Actually, though, I need a reply from her.”

“You need a what?” demanded Daryl.

“That was the deal…I bring this letter and get her answer back. In HER writing,” said Aaron. “Otherwise…”

He didn’t have to continue. Daryl was well-aware of the kind of “deals” Negan and his men came up with.

“I can read it and write back my damn self,” hissed Daryl, reaching in his pocket. “If you have a pen, that is.”

“No,” said Aaron slowly, in a way that told Daryl he had expected this, that he had prepared for this kind of backlash. “It HAS to be from Francie. Simon was EXP-RESS-LY clear about that.” 

And the way Aaron said the word “expressly” easily brought to mind Simon’s voice, his cadence, and the way he must have made his message clear to Aaron. Daryl glowered at Aaron. 

“What’s he, a fucking handwriting expert?”

“No, but I sure bet your handwriting doesn’t like anything like a girl’s writing, let alone that you can spell and write like her,” said Aaron, and at any other time, the hidden jab in there might have pissed off Daryl, but he was too upset and worried about Francie to care. 

“He can spell,” said Francie, suddenly, crossly. 

Aaron looked to the ceiling and let out a ragged sigh. “Daryl…he said he’s going to kill Sasha if I don’t get the reply back to him by lunch. He has Eric making him cardamom gelato as we speak.” 

Daryl jammed his hand into his pocket and retrieved the note. 

“Read it out loud, then,” he said, tossing it at Aaron angrily, and sinking to the floor beside the bed, his head in his hands. 

Aaron squared his shoulders and picked up the note. Glancing over at Francie, who was now huddled as far into the corner of the bed as possible, he began reading the note. 

“Kitten—

Here, Daryl slammed his fist into the nightstand, nearly knocking the lamp off. Aaron shot him a warning glance. Daryl sensed Francie behind him, watching him, and he nodded at Aaron to continue. Keep it together, pussy, he heard his brother say. 

“Kitten,” Aaron began again. “I am so sorry for what happened with Jacob. Negan doesn’t stand for that, as you know. He says you have been punished enough, and you can come home now. Not to the cell, but with me, where I can keep you safe and make sure nothing like that ever happens to you again. I’ve been broken up ever since you left, can’t focus, can’t think straight. Let me make this right. I know you’re with Daryl, and I forgive you, because I know you’re hurt and don’t know what else to do. But you need to know he is not a good man. His people are not good people. They’re killers, the lot of them, and Daryl worst of all—

“Keep going,” said Daryl flatly, as Aaron had stopped reading, words trailing off as he looked down at him on the ground. 

Aaron nodded and continued, though his voice was softer now. “Ask him how many men he killed in their sleep. How many babies he left father-less. How many wives he left widowed. Ask him, even though he will lie right to your face. 

And, Kitten, if you still care for him, you need to know this: He has so much pain and torment coming for him. He thought we tried to break him before. He has no idea. If you want to spare him that, you need to come home to me. I know you don’t love me right now. I know you are scared and hurt and he has filled your head with so many lies. But you know I’m a good man, that I’ll keep you safe, that I won’t let another man touch you ever again. Can he promise you that? Can he promise you anything? 

Kitten, I miss you like hell and I don’t care what a fool that makes me. You will live well here. You will be safe here. If he cares for you, if he isn’t letting his ego get in the way, he would want that for you. Think about it. And you will see I am right. 

Love, Simon,” finished Aaron. 

“Love, Simon,” echoed Francie. 

“Oh, there’s a p.s. on the back,” said Aaron, turning the paper over. “P.S. Remember when you showered in my place and slept in my bed? I have lived on the memory of that night ever since.”

Aaron blushed a little at that. Daryl seethed into space. 

And Francie said, lightly, airily, as if trying to change the subject, “This pumpkin bread kinda tastes like shit, no offense.”

Aaron snorted with laughter, but instantly went quiet when Daryl glared at him. 

“Give her the damn pen and paper,” he said, and then without another word, he stalked out of the cabin.


	23. We ain't getting no happy ending

Taking a cigarette out of the crumbled back pocket of his jeans, Daryl slumped onto the patio railing. Patting around for his lighter, he looked up in surprise when Aaron joined him. 

“Gave her the pen and paper,” said Aaron defensively, putting his hands up. “Although whether she will use it to write back to Simon or write down a damn recipe for red velvet cake, who the hell knows.”

Daryl pinched the cigarette between his fingers and gave Aaron the shittiest expression he could. “Don’t talk like that about her. Ain’t funny.”

Aaron’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. She’s…sweet, Dar, really. I like her. Just on edge, that’s all.” 

Daryl nodded, biting back a lump that suddenly appeared in his throat. 

“Fuck am I supposed to do, Aaron?” He said, his fingers shaking as he brought the cigarette back up to his lips. 

Aaron anxiously ran his fingers up and down his crossed arms, as if warding off a chill, even though the warm spell was continuing. 

“Daryl…”

“Don’t you fucking say it to me too, man,” said Daryl, his voice breaking. “I swear to God, not you too.” 

“What?” asked Aaron curiously, openly, as always. 

“That I should let her go,” he said. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Aaron frowned a little. “No. It’s not your decision. It’s hers.” 

Daryl nervously glanced back at the shut door. 

Aaron smiled. “Why don’t you just go in there and find out? What are you out here for?”

“Her decision, like ya said,” said Daryl. “What if…what if…she does want to…”

He didn’t have to finish what he was about to say. 

Aaron shook his head. “That P.S. was a doozy, I’ll give you that.” 

Daryl took a long inhale and drummed his fingers against the post. 

“There is something to be said, though…something to be said for her listening to Simon’s request,” said Aaron quietly, almost so quietly it was hard to make out the words. 

Daryl eyed him. 

“Right now, Negan wants to be good to her,” said Aaron. “You didn’t see him like I did, back at Alexandria…he was really angry about what those men did. He talked to Denise for a long time, wanting to know what happened to Frances and if she would be okay. He was really pissed.”

“So that makes him a fuckin’ nice guy, now? Are you nuts?” hissed Daryl.

Aaron shook his head slowly. “No…just thinking. Right now, he feels compassion for her. He wants to help her. He wants Simon to take care of her. He said himself Simon hasn’t been worth shit since she went missing. So, he has a lot of motivation to make sure that she is treated well and is safe at the Sanctuary.”

“Safe? At the Sanctuary? That’s like saying you’re safe in the center of hell,” said Daryl, bitterly.

Aaron ignored him and continued, “But, if she keeps running from Simon, keeps disobeying their orders…then, it won’t be long before that compassion dries up. Before he decided that he wants her back in his cells.”

Daryl put his head down. 

“He doesn’t like his authority to be challenged,” continued Aaron calmly. “That’s more important to him than anything.” 

“Can’t believe you’re saying this,” said Daryl, his stomach clenched in a heaving, impossible knot.

“Don’t act like you’re not thinking the same damn thing,” said Aaron. “You’re too smart not to have thought out every detail of this.” 

Daryl glared at him. “Ain’t thinking no such thing,” he said. “You forget. I been there. I been in those cells. I seen what Negan does to people. I saw him iron a man’s face off. I seen the way he treats women, ‘wives’ he calls them, but they ain’t there by choice, not really. You think I would ever, ever trust his word? That I would ever send Francie to a place like that, all by herself? God damn, she can barely cope right now as it is, after what happened to her, after being in that cage, cause of HIM, for weeks or months or who knows how long…”

Here, his voice shook a little and he started cracking his knuckles agitatedly. 

Aaron spread his hands out and gave a reluctant shrug. “Simon says he will protect her. He promised me himself. He pleaded with me, Daryl. I’ve never seen him so earnest. He really cares for her…it’s not just…sexual.”

At that last word, Daryl’s body went rigid. The thought of Simon holding Francie at night, the thought of Simon sleeping beside her, touching her body, kissing her, breathing her in, being tender with her, soon became replaced by images of Simon holding her down, exploring her, gripping her sweet breasts roughly, sticking his fingers inside her panties…He stopped himself and shuddered in disgust. He didn’t know which image hurt him more. Simon being gentle and patient with her or Simon being a monster. 

“You love her,” said Aaron suddenly, as if the fact had just dawned him. 

“’Course I do, dumbass,” snapped Daryl, not even bothering to deny it, too pent up and angry to refute the obvious. 

“Wow,” said Aaron, shaking his head a little. 

“What?” demanded Daryl defensively. “I know she’s too good for me, I know – 

Aaron interrupted and placed his hand on Daryl’s chest. “She’s lucky as hell, Dar. You’re more than good enough for her. I just was surprised, is all. Never known you to have feelings for any woman. It’s sweet. I’m happy for you. Truly.” 

“Well,” said Daryl, frowning a little. “Don’t be. We ain’t getting no happy ending.”

Aaron’s face clouded. “Don’t say that.” 

Daryl said nothing and just looked at him. Aaron opened his mouth and then closed it. Daryl knew there was nothing left to say. He knew there was nothing he could do. Even if he had the full support of his group, which he didn’t, their strength paled in comparison to the Saviors numbers and weapons. Sure, they could run and hide, but for how long? How many nights and days could he force Francie to live on snakes and squirrels, nowhere safe to lay her head, before they would finally be caught and killed?

“Go to your girl,” said Aaron finally, sadly, as if he had been reading Daryl’s mind and knew expecting what he was thinking. “That’s what you can do right now.” 

Daryl slowly turned to the door, but as he did, Aaron grabbed his arm. 

“We went on that run once…near Shenandoah National Park. Do you remember? When we were desperate to find something, anything for Negan? We drove for hours.”

Daryl frowned a little, and nodded. 

“Never saw a waterfall in real life before that,” said Aaron. “Lived in D.C. almost my whole life, but I never even knew about the Great Falls.”

Daryl stared at him with slightly knitted eyebrows. He was starting to remind him of Francie, with these non-sequiturs. 

“Go on,” said Aaron. “I’ll wait out here.”

Daryl’s hand hovered over the doorknob. 

“What else is it all for, if not for this?” asked Aaron, talking to Daryl but seeming a million miles away. “What’s the point in surviving, if we have to sacrifice love to do it?” 

Biting his lip, Daryl gave him a short, meaningful nod, his eyes flashing a little under his hair. 

Then he turned and walked inside, knowing with certainty that when he walked back out, Aaron would be gone.


	24. We're on easy street

When he walked back in the small hut, he found Francie curled up on the bed, a distressed look on her face. He sat down beside her, looking down and seeing a sheet of paper in her hand. All she had written was “Dear Simon,” in light, frail cursive. The pen was still in her hand. 

She looked up at Daryl and shook her head wordlessly. 

“If I could be sure…If I could know that you would be safe,” she said, her voice quavering slightly. “Then I would do it. You know I would do it, right?” 

She looked up at him, her green eyes searching his face frantically. 

“I would never want you to think…that I wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t go to him, if it would keep you safe. Because I would. A million times over, of course I would.” 

He looked down at her, so desperate, so distressed, so worried for him, and it occurred to him that no one else, not even Merle, had ever taken him, his life and his pain and his safety, so seriously. He felt broken and full at the same time. Impulsively, he reached down and grabbed her face roughly, then kissed her full on the mouth, her lips soft and sweet as blackberries and slightly open as he caught her by surprise. She let out a little moan. 

He pulled back. There were tears in her eyes. 

“I thought you might be mad at me,” she said, sounding a little relieved. 

“The hell for?” he asked, shocked, stroking her cheek with his thumb and sinking back against the pillows beside her, half-reclining with bent knees. 

“Because, you know,” she said, and here she blushed. “Because of what Simon wrote at the end of the letter…and then you walked out, and I just thought…you thought I was…like…that we had done stuff together.” 

Daryl’s finger stilled on her cheek. Of course, he had wondered. He wished he could say he was a bigger man than that, that it hadn’t crossed his mind at all, but, of course it had. Not only because it enraged him to think of Simon possibly taking advantage of her when she was in a vulnerable, captive state, but because…well, what if he didn’t take advantage of her at all? What if she liked him? Although the thought made him cringe, he flashed back to something Rosita once said about Simon, that he “looks like a good time,” and the knowing looks the other women had given her told him that Simon was far from unattractive to the opposite sex. 

“I mean, he was kind to me, he took care of me,” she said, her voice quickening, become defensive. “I don’t really remember being in his room, only sort of. The shower…and how warm it was, and he had this soap that smelled like…a man’s soap. Woodsy or spicy or something. And he did help me, I think…I was crying, on the ground…I remember that. The tile cold and hard under me, and then, I think he came in. And he had a fluffy towel and this shirt…it smelled like the soap, like him.” 

In the silence, her face had grown more worried. “You think I’m a slut, don’t you?” 

“Never would think you’re a slut, girl,” he said, eyes sharpening. “Hate that word, anyway. Merle always said only a little bitch would try to tear down a woman for liking sex. Besides, it’s not like I have any claim to ya.”

He hated himself as he spoke those last words aloud, but he knew he needed to say them. Knew he needed to make it clear to her that it was her choice, that she wasn’t under any obligation to him, just because he saved her life. 

“Oh.” 

It was just a simple word, a syllable really. But it said a lot. He felt like had made a mistake, said something wrong, but he didn’t know how to go back and fix it. She picked up the pen again. 

“I didn’t fuck him, you know,” she retorted, viciously poking holes in the paper with the pen now. 

“Girl, I know…I mean, it’s okay, whatever happened,” he said, reaching out and stopping her hand, or trying to, before she ripped it out of his grasp. “As long as he didn’t hurt ya, force ya, I mean, then it’s okay.” 

She shifted away from on the bed and tried to stand up, but she got tangled up in his legs, and he easily grabbed her. Holding her under the armpits and dragging her a little back to him, he tried to look at her, but she tucked her face away from him under her hair. 

“Let go of me,” she said. “Let me go.” 

His eyes widened. He nodded and released her. She hadn’t ever spoken to him like this before, not since the first day in the woods. Fucking hell did he do, he wondered. 

“I have to write my paper…thing,” she said stiffly, “I mean, my thing on the paper. His stomach did a little dip inside of him. She sounded muddled, disordered. 

Daryl sat up and put his feet on the floor, watching as Francie curled at the end of the cot and put her back to him. 

“I SAID I didn’t fuck him,” she said, abruptly, angrily, going back to poking holes in the paper, though he couldn’t see anything but her shaking back and curtain of dark hair. “I SAID I’m not a slut. But YOU told me the first day, you wanted to know my real name.”

With each stressed word, the pen would jab down into the paper. 

“I didn’t WANT him touching me, seeing me naked, seeing my body, drying me…there…everywhere. But he was…sweet or something like it, and I was bitten up and there were rats down there and he had this big warm bed, and there were no RATS, or if there were, they were so small, maybe invisible rats, and he, HE was big and warm, and he seemed so NORMAL, like he acted like we were on a date or something, not like I was the THING from the basement, but just like a “Pretty” girl from some bar, he SAID I was pretty, so I’m not being VAIN, I would never want you to think I’m vain, because trust me I know I’m DISGUSTING and even as happy as I can be, have been, with you, I want you to know I NEVER, EVER forget I’m DISGUSTING and USED and not the kind of girl you would want, ANYONE would want, except SIMON and even then, I know he would get tired of me, and then WHAT? I guess I could fuck someone else, another savior, maybe all of them, WHY not I don’t care I really don’t I want you to know I don’t care and 

At some point during this deluge, Daryl finally snapped out of his horrified state of frozen silence and instead leaned forward to calm her…and as he did so, he realized that she had not been jabbing the pen into the paper with each stressed word, but rather she had been jabbing it into her own flesh, into her inner left thigh.

“Shit! Shit!” he swore, as he saw several spots of blood appearing through the thin gray sweats. 

She looked up at him startled, as if confused by his reaction. Then looking down at the blood on her leg, she said “Oh,” again. 

“If you have soda water, we can get the stain out, but we have to do it right now!” she said, lifting up her hips and quickly wriggling her pants down. 

He gaped at her, confused, and she shook his bicep with her fingers. “Or club soda, or even ginger ale, if that’s all you have?” 

He looked down at her thigh. There were numerous bloody pen pricks, like angry red bee stings, already swollen all over the top of her left thigh and the inside of it. 

He winced. 

“What did you do to yourself, baby girl?”

She looked down and shook her head in confused dismay, as if she wasn’t sure what happened. “I think I just got a little hurt.” 

He put his head in his hands. Why the fuck had he just sat here and let her do that? How fucking stupid was he? 

“We need to get that cleaned, so it doesn’t get infected,” he said.

She sat obediently while he got the first aid kit, and although she jumped several times as he applied the antibacterial ointment and bandaids, she stayed quiet and otherwise unmoving. He tried to keep his fingers light and gentle, tried not to focus on how this was an intimate area, her sweet, soft, inner thighs, tried not to focus on how this was an intimate wound, a wound that felt so much bigger than this room and this morning. 

He wanted to say something, anything. Something to make her feel better. Something to rewind back the clock to before Simon appeared in this cabin and triggered this cascade of pain and self-hate. Instead, he just sank down to his knees, and sat on the floor beside her knees. 

Finally, he spoke. “Be a bitch to ride the bike with your inner thigh all fucked up, but we ain’t gotta choice. Need to start making time, and now. Should have left an hour ago.” 

“I never wrote my paper,” she said, sounding distant and pointing down at the now discarded sheet on the floor. “I have to turn it in.” 

“Fuck that fucking shit,” he said, turning to pack up the room, but first picking up her sweats and handing them to her. “Put these on. Getting the fuck out of here.” 

She slowly took them out of his hands. He threw items in Aaron’s knapsack—the rest of the granola bars, the pumpkin bread, the inside of the first aid kit, the ranger station shirts, the half-drank Gatorade—while she leaned her head against the wall and began humming. He picked up his bow, then sank on his knees in front of her. 

“On, girl,” he said, and then reaching back to pull his arms around his neck, she obliged and wrapped her legs around his waist as well. 

As he stood, she continued humming. It wasn’t until he sat her on the ground and pulled the bike out of hiding that he realized the tune. 

“We’re on easy street, and it feels so sweet, and the world is but a treat, when you’re on easy street…”


	25. rock damn ass and carry on

Daryl didn’t know how much time he had before the Saviors would be after them, he reckoned not long at all. He assumed Aaron would go back and say he hadn’t been able to find them, but he didn’t know what would happen after that. If Negan would make good on his promise to kill—but, no, whenever he thought too long and hard about what might be happening back at home, it only made him feel sick and weak and dizzy. 

So, he focused on the road. He had enough gas to get him halfway to Shenandoah, the national park which boasted several waterfalls that Aaron had mentioned earlier. It might have been news to a city boy like Aaron when they first traveled there, but Daryl had spent many hiking and hunting trips in the region. Merle even had a ‘piece’ (as he called her) at the Pollock Dining Room, a fancy tourist-y place in the Upper Loop of the area. When Aaron and he had first seen the Shenandoah National Park sign, that’s the first thing Daryl thought of—not Merle’s girl, but the Pollack Dining Room, and all those fancy cabins and lodges that would be sitting empty and likely completely forgotten about by most people, as they would not think to look deep in a rugged, mountain area for supplies. 

But Daryl wasn’t most people. And he was right about the Pollock. They encountered only a few walkers, mainly dead workers (not Merle’s waitress, thank God for small favors, ‘cause Daryl always had nightmares for weeks after he put down someone he knew), but they had found everything from champagne to bags of cornbread mix to countless mini toiletries. 

In then end, they had decided to take nothing but basic cans of soup and boxes of cereal and rice. 

“If we bring these bottles back, anything with the hotel name on it, Negan’s men will clean this place out in a day flat,” Daryl said, shaking his head when Aaron tried to load up a box with shampoo. “Just the basics, and nothing that will raise suspicion.” 

The two agreed not to mention the place to anyone else, not even Rick, and to use it as their last resort when things got really bad between Negan and their people again. Daryl thought he would have to convince Aaron, beg him to keep silent, but it turned out that Aaron needed no such convincing. 

“I grew up gay in the South, Daryl,” he said. “In the height of the AIDS epidemic, no less. Trust me when I say I know a thing or two about keeping my mouth shut.” 

But then things had stayed stagnant with Negan for a long time, and the Hilltop’s farm was booming, and they hadn’t wanted to waste the gas going all the way to Shenandoah if it wasn’t needed. In fact, Daryl had almost entirely forgotten about it, until Aaron mentioned it to him. 

He was indebted to Aaron for that, for that and so much more, he knew, because he couldn’t bear to think how Simon and Negan would react to the man’s empty-handed arrival back at Alexandria. He could imagine. He could but he wouldn’t, because if he did, he imagined Simon literally hacking off Aaron’s hands as punishment, or worse, torturing Eric to try and make him talk…the possibilities left Daryl numb and hopeless. He knew Aaron made his choice, that he had decided to do this for him, or for some greater more philosophical reason, something bigger than just him and Francie, but Daryl could have stopped him. He could have. And he didn’t.

And he would have to live with that and die with that. 

But, for now, he was only thinking of survival, of how to find more gas, because he couldn’t possibly carry Francie uphill the rest of the way to Shenandoah once they ran out. Well, he could, physically, but it would be slow-going and dangerous and exhausting. And there wouldn’t be just walkers and potential hostile survivors, but also bears and snakes and the fact that cold was coming closer, sharper, each day. And the higher up they went, the colder it would get. He wouldn’t be surprised to see snow, something they definitely weren’t prepared for. 

So they drove and drove, only stopping when Daryl saw a car on the side of the road. He knew it was hopeless, he already checked most of these vehicles for gas when he was with Aaron, but he refused to simply drive by without at least trying. This continued on for hours, and his body was aching from the ride and the tension that was sitting like a boulder on his neck and shoulders. It didn’t help that he was feeling Francie starting to fade, that she kept slipping in and out of sleep, making him nervous as shit because she was barely holding tight enough to him as it was. He finally gave up on urging her to hold tighter, and instead clutched her arms around his waist with a clenched fist, one-arming the handlebar most of the drive.

Finally, after checking so many cars that he lost count, Daryl caught sight of a dark purple sedan pulled off in a ditch. It was nearly hidden by a tractor trailer which was on its side right next to the car. The trailer’s gates were opened, and whatever was inside, had long since been ransacked. For a second Daryl assumed the car had been smashed, or that it would be similarly picked apart like the truck, but as they drove closer, he saw the car appeared untouched. Dirty and dusty but no fingerprints or signs of life (or death) near it. 

He pulled the bike over to investigate, tucking it near the trailer’s back to hide them from the road. Cautiously he approached the sedan. No one was inside it, or underneath. And, to his shock, there were keys in the ignition. 

He pulled the handle. It opened. Shaking his head in disbelief, he sat in the car, leaving the door open. Twisting the key, he closed his eyes. It started. It started and the gas meter was almost on F. 

“Goddamn, goddamn, thank you,” said Daryl, though to who he didn’t know, cause he sure as hell didn’t believe in god, or at least not a benevolent one. 

Instantly, he decided to take the bike and hide it, making sure that no one would who passed by could link him to this area. It was a risk, leaving his bike, which he knew was expertly maintained if he didn’t say so himself, for a car which could have engine or battery problems or who knows what (why else would someone have left it behind?) but the car would be quieter and smoother on the mountain roads. If it had just been him, he never would have left the bike, if only for sentimental reasons and not practical ones. But the car would offer more comfort and protection for Francie, and could double as a shelter. 

He was going to tell her this reasoning, explain the plan, but she was half-asleep on the ground by the bike. She was shivering and silent, and he realized she hadn’t spoken for hours. 

Moving quickly, he hid the bike. 

He walked over and picked her up.

“New ride, babygirl,” he said, but if she knew what he was talking about, she didn’t seem to care. The backseat was empty, save for a carseat which Daryl ruthlessly ripped out. Any another day, that carseat would be gold and he would have happily brought it home for Judith, but…he didn’t want to think about Judith. He laid 

Francie down in the backseat, propping her head up as best he could with an old jean jacket he found on the passenger side seat. 

“Just rest, girl,” he said, and she looked so small and sad and tired, that he found himself fighting the urge to lay down and hold her. Not now, he thought. Focus. 

Focus, little bro, he could hear Merle say, and the voice was not quite so distant as it normally was. 

Because the closer he got to Pollock and Shenandoah the closer he felt to Merle, closer than he had felt to him since his death. Everything reminded him of Merle—the smell of the pines, the cold, sharp mountain air, the empty, lonely road. Highway signs touting R.V. camps and titty bars and gun stores were further reminders, not just figuratively, but literally, as the Dixon brothers had frequented many of these places together over the years. Come to think of it, it was here that Daryl had finally lost his virginity—a one-night stand after too many Coors Lights in a tent by the Endless Caverns R.V. park. 

Merle was an ass. A racist, good-for-nothing, methhead, piece of shit. No one had to tell Daryl that. He knew. He fucking knew. But Merle was also all Daryl ever had. 

And he was gone. 

And Daryl refused to lose one more thing, his only thing, either to Negan or Simon or nightmares or walkers. Not when there was still fight in his blood and breath in his body. He knew he would lose. He knew in the end he would lose. That he couldn’t outrun death forever. That there would inevitably come a time when his enemies would find him and lay him low. 

But until then, he would “rock damn ass and carry on” as Merle would say. 

Rock damn ass and carry on.


	26. Tired Daryl

“No, no, tiredddd,” whined Francie, while Daryl awkwardly tried to lift her out of the backseat. It was dark. They had been driving for hours without stopping. Rather than head straight to the Pollock or any other large establishments, Daryl had opted to stop at a small chain of hunting cabins. He had stayed at Crow Creek many times over the years, either to hunt or to go motocross or just get loaded with Merle and hang out with townies. 

It seemed like a whole other lifetime ago, as far away as dinosaurs, yet somehow also concurrently present, as if it was happening right now and he would run into Merle or one of his shitty, squirrely little dealers any moment. 

He hoped to find the cabins empty, if not livable, and he was luckily right on both counts. He was thankful yet again that he had chosen to take the car, and a new car with an alarm no less, because it meant he could lock the doors and do recon without worrying about Francie. 

In the end, he chose the cabin set furthest back from the others. If he was being honest, he chose that particular cabin was ‘cause he didn’t remember ever staying there, ever getting high or drunk or fighting or fucking there, but then again, he could have been wrong because shit…well, he didn’t remember a lot of things from those years. 

“Where are we, Daryl?” asked Francie, finally lifting her head and looking around the woods. 

Her voice sounded clear and aware. That was reassuring. 

He kicked open the back door of the cabin.

“Safe place, girl,” he said. “Gonna rest here for the night.” 

The cabin had three rooms—a bathroom, a bedroom with a king-size bed, and a small kitchenette in the back. Daryl put her down on the bed and instantly started rifling through the cabinets. 

He smiled. “Fucking BeefARoni,” he said. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

He ripped open a can, and stuck his fingers in the noodles, pulling out a huge bite with his bare hands. 

“Shit, that’s a white trash delight.”

He was aware that his drawl was getting thicker, that he was being louder, more brash. He wondered if it was the adrenaline, the exhaustion or just the impact of the place itself. 

Francie didn’t seem to notice. 

“Find a fork for you, girl,” he said, and he did, a discarded collection of takeout silverware in a moth-eaten drawer. He opened her a new can of BeefARoni and handed it to her with a fork inside of it. 

She smiled weakly at him. 

“Do I have to?”

He gave her a look. 

Reluctantly, she took a small bite of a noodle. Then, hunger overtook her natural pickiness, and she started to eat, though he noticed she still avoided the cold chunks of meat.

She held out the half-finished can to him, and he ate the beef, then went back and finished his first can. 

While he ate, Francie limped around the bed, using the mattress for support as she lifted up the sheets and blankets to air them out. Then, she respread the bedding carefully on the mattress, plumping up the pillows as she did so. 

Satisfied, she started to undo her flannel. She pulled off her boots and sweats, making Daryl’s face darken instantly when he saw her raw wounded thigh. In her t-shirt and panties, she crawled into bed, covering up with the sheet and letting out a sigh. 

“Thank you, Daryl,” she said, rolling over to face him. She gave him one of her sweet, happy little smiles. “I like it here.”

He felt himself puff up a little with pride, then snorted and looked down at his Beefaroni. 

“Shit, don’t think anyone’s ever been grateful to find themselves at Crow’s cabins before.”

“Well, then, they probably weren’t here with you.” 

He let out a small, self-conscious exhale at that, at the earnest, whole-hearted way she was looking at him, the lost, angry Francie a distant memory now.

He sat in a wobbly dining room chain to pull off his jacket and boots, and looked across the room at her, all cozy and soft and smiling in the bed. Waiting for him to join her. Waiting for him...him. Damn, he really couldn’t get over that. 

He fell into the mattress beside with her with a sigh, laying a hand over his head. 

“Poor Daryl,” she said, smoothing her hand down his chest. “Tired Daryl.” 

He reached out to grab her hand and hold it against him. 

He was exhausted. More than anything, he just wanted to collapse into sleep and stay there for at least a few hours. 

But first, he needed to do something else. 

Pushing the sheet off them, he scooted down on the bed until he was eye-level with her thighs and pussy. She looked down at him in wonderment. 

He kissed her swollen, aching little wounds, lightly licking the parts of her leg where blood had run free and dried. She squirmed and moaned at his touch, her fingers running through his long hair and gripping it tight. 

He let himself stay there for a second, just resting his head on her thigh, before pausing to kiss her clothed pussy. She gasped. He sat back up and then laid down on the pillow next to her, pulling the sheet back over them. 

Wide-eyed, she looked up at him.

“Please don’t do that to yourself again, girl,” he said. 

And then, with her eyes still confused and watching him in disbelief, he passed out.


	27. the living suck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am still continuing this story, it's not finished....just saying b/c of comment(s) wondering if it was over.

When Daryl woke up, it was still dark outside, but just the sky was just beginning to lighten. For a moment, he struggled to place where he was…in the ranger’s cabin, back at Denise’s house, in Rick’s bedroom, his mind could not recognize his surroundings. 

In one moment, he realized he was at the cabins near Shenandoah. In the next, he saw the shadow of a man standing in the room. 

“Get up, baby brother,” he heard a thick, familiar drawl say. 

Adrenaline scorched him wide-awake, and he sat up quickly, feeling Francie’s body fall from him in response. He reached for his bow, and his fingers blindly knocked over items on the nightstand as he struggled to find the weapon. 

Francie was awake now, and confused. 

“What’s happening?” 

Daryl finally had his bow and turned to face the intruder. 

There was no one there. 

Daryl blinked and leaped out of the bed. The man was not crouched there, or behind the kitchenette counter. The bathroom? 

“Stay there, girl,” he commanded Francie roughly, and then he slammed open the bathroom door.

Still no one. 

Shaking his head in confusion, he checked the front door. It was locked and deadbolted from the inside, just like it had been when they went to bed.

Francie was still patiently waiting on the bed. 

“Think I had a bad dream, girl,” he said. “Sorry.” 

She sat up on her knees in the bed and tugged him down to a seated position. She swiped his hair off his neck and kissed the back of it, her body loose and limp against him.

“Back to sleep,” she said. 

He frowned for a moment, staring into space. 

“What?” she asked, becoming more alert as she sensed his unease. 

“It’s silly,” he said, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

“Not to me, never to me,” she said, loyally. “Please tell me. If you want.” 

“Think that was my brother…He told me to ‘get up,’” said Daryl. “Damn, I know it sounds crazy, but it felt so real. Swear I could even smell his cheap-ass aftershave.” 

Francie looked down. “You have goosebumps.” 

Daryl’s eyes followed hers. “So do you.” 

“You wanna go?” 

Daryl’s eyebrows shot up. That’s exactly what he wanted. But he was afraid he was being foolish, and he didn’t want to roust her from the warm bed she had been so happy over. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen, that there was something cursed and strange about this place. He had felt it the night before, but he had chalked it up to his past and his memories here. But now, he was starting to think it might be something more. He remembered the funeral home, and Beth, and the damn white car with the cross on it.

“You said you liked it here,” he said, recalling her words from the night before. 

“Um, that was before you saw a ghost.” 

He gave her a half-smile. “You really don’t mind?” 

“You’re the boss, boss,” she smiled at him, reaching for her flannel on the nearby chair. 

“Hey,” he said, grabbing her arm and stopping her. “No, I ain’t. It’s equal, between us.” 

She shook her head at him. “That’s kid stuff, Daryl. Things always being equal. Things always being fair. Someone has to be in charge and I’m fine with it being you, seeing as how I’m half-insane most the time.” 

He clucked his tongue at that. “Don’t say that. Ain’t nothing wrong with ya.”

She snorted a little and gave him a look. 

“Well, sometimes you get a little…overwrought, I guess, but it still ain’t wrong. It’s just you,” he said defensively, almost angry at her on her own behalf. 

She shook her head with a little smile on her face, and went to work doing up her buttons. 

“People always said my ma was crazy,” said Daryl, a little abruptly, surprising even himself with that admission. 

Francie looked up at him, her smile dropping away and her face softening. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I bet she was really lovely.”

He cocked his head to the side. 

“Naw…well, I don’t know,” he said. “She was gone a lot. Jail for bad checks. And drug paraphernalia. And an institution one time. That was after I was born. And then when she wasn’t gone…well, she still was. Just in a different way.” 

“What happened to her?” 

Francie was sitting back beside him on the bed now, her face leaning against his shoulder, her cheek soft and cool on his overheated skin. 

“House fire,” he said. “When I was little. Must have done it herself when she was drunk. On purpose or accident, they don’t know. Came home and found the whole house up in smoke.” 

Francie let out a small, sad “Oh,” and then kissed his shoulder through his T-shirt. 

“What was your mom like?” he asked, trying to change the subject from his own shitty childhood as he pulled his boots and coat on. 

She looked a little distressed, guilty even.

He paused, confused for a moment, before looking down and smiling. “Girl, you ain’t gotta feel guilty for having a nice mom. Shit, I’m happy you did…you did, right?That’s why you’re looking all sad over there? Cuz you don’t want to rub my face in it?”

She smiled a little back at him and shrugged. 

“I’m happy you did,” he repeated again, walking over and stroking her hair off her face. “Mean that.” 

She let out a breath. “Okay,” she said. “Because sometimes, I just feel bad when you talk about things from your past. I guess I kind of had a blessed childhood in comparison.” 

“Fuck, you made up for in this life though.” 

Her face contorted a little. 

He sank down to his knees and pulled her into a rough hug. “Shit, I didn’t mean like that. Just meant…you know more than enough about pain, is all. So I ain’t got the market on it or something.” 

She pulled her face out of his chest. 

“Well, I did have a really mean high school teacher once. He was always yelling at me for my uniform skirt being too short.” 

Daryl lifted his eyebrows. “Sounds like a fucking pervert if you ask me…want me to go kick his ass?” 

She giggled. Daryl felt his muscles unclench. He hadn’t realized how tense the nightmare had made him, until Frances showed him her light. 

“C’mon, girl,” he said. “I want to get the fuck out of here.”

“Where to?” she asked, helping him to pack up their supplies, although she made a small ‘yuck’ face when he tossed the remaining cans of BeefARoni in the backpack. 

“I know a place, just up the mountain,” he said. “I think it should be safe. Was deserted when me and Aaron went there a few months back.” 

Frances nodded. 

“Do you think he—I mean, I was supposed to write back to Simon, and I never did. What’s going to happen to everyone back at your camp?” 

Daryl slung his crossbow over his shoulder. “Can’t think about that right now, girl. Just gotta keep moving.” 

“I don’t want people to die because of me,” she said, tears flooding her eyes. “Especially not when everyone was so kind to me.” 

“Ain’t no one dying cause of you,” Daryl snapped. “If they die, they die ‘cause of the men who kill them, men like Negan and Simon. That shit AIN’T on you, ya hear me? It AIN’T on you.”

She looked a little taken aback by his intensity, but her expression relaxed. 

“Get on,” he said, bending down in front of her. She easily climbed onto his back with little help from him. 

“Gonna be able to walk on your own soon, I bet,” he said, carrying her out into the chilly blue-gray morning. 

“Hell, no. I want to be carried around like a queen,” she said in a lofty voice. 

He scoffed a little at that and then bent down to open the passenger side.

“You can sit up here with me this time,” he said. “Entertain me. Instead of freeloading in the back seat.” 

She popped her mouth as if offended, but happily sunk into the front seat. 

And it wasn’t until they were halfway up the mountain, snaking around the Upper Loop towards Pollock and Bear’s Nest and the rest of the chi-chi establishments, that Daryl noticed something unusual out his driver side’s window. He pulled the car over to get a better look. 

Down at the base of the mountain, right where Crow Creek Cabins were situated, Daryl saw hundreds of dead things swarming. Walkers. Everywhere. A herd. 

“We were just down there,” breathed Francie. “We could have been…we would have been…”

They looked at each other with identical faces of shock and relief. 

“That settles it. I am naming my firstborn Merle,” said Francie, her voice somber and playful at the same time. 

“Shit, I ain’t naming no kid of mine Merle,” laughed Daryl.

“Who said you were gonna be the daddy?” asked Francie airily, and she earned herself a teasing swat on the thigh from Daryl as he pulled the car back on the road. 

“One thing’s for sure. Any one following us is gonna have a hell of a time dealing with that mess,” said Daryl. “Never thought I would be grateful to a walker before.” 

“What if they head this way, though?” asked Francie, her smile fading a little. 

He shrugged. “Not likely, it’s a tough hike on foot. Plus, it gets snowy and icy the farther up you go. Nah, it ain’t the kind of place that could attract a herd. But…the living, shit, now, “the living…”

“The living suck,” said Francie simply, and for some reason, that made them both start cracking up.


	28. Alpaca

Daryl had been pleased to find the Pollock as untouched and deserted as it had been when Aaron and he had been there in the spring. He piggybacked Francie into the wide lobby which had soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling glass windows. 

“Nice, right?” he asked her when she let out an impressed coo. “Merle’s girl made bank here during the rush months.” 

“It’s nice,” she said. “I mean, it reminds me of the Shining, a little bit…but yeah, this is definitely a step up from Crow-Magnon Hotel.” 

He playfully narrowed his eyes as he sat her on the reception glass desk.

“Damn, already catching airs on me,” he complained, rifling through every drawer and cabinet he could find. 

“Room keys,” he said, holding up a fistful of cards triumphantly. 

“Why you taking all of them?” she asked, as he threw them into a plastic bag he found on the floor. “Just get the honeymoon suite.” 

He chuckled. “Cause the honeymoon suite could be filled with dead fuckers for all we know. ‘Sides, even once we find a good room, still want to go investigate and look for supplies.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “But I am not exploring room 237.” 

He shook his head and smiled. “Look at you. A week ago you barely knew what year it was, now you dropping movie jokes on me.” 

“What can I say?” She shrugged. “I have been taken expert care of.” 

He blushed a little at that. “C’mon, I think I got ‘em all,” he said. “Let’s start at the top and work our way down.” 

“You’re gonna carry me up…eleven flights of stairs?” asked Francie, gazing down at the hotel directory next to her on the glass-topped desk. 

“Well, you ain’t gonna sprout wings anytime soon, are ya?” he teased. 

“I’m gonna kill your back,” she said, worriedly, as he eased her back onto him. 

“Girl, you ain’t weigh more than a wet hen,” he said. 

“That sounds potentially…offensive,” she said, laughing, as he walked her to the grand staircase. “Couldn’t you have picked a more attractive animal?” 

“Like what? A alpaca?” 

She laughed again, and then reached down and kissed him on the side of the neck. He stumbled a little, as she started sucking and nibbling the tender skin there. 

“Fuck, you don’t play fair,” he said, feeling his cock getting hard just from that simple contact alone. 

“Me, not play fair?” she asked, appalled. “If it was up to me, you would be inside of me right now.”

He nearly choked at that. His cock felt like steel, painfully protruding against his belt. He grimaced a little. 

She looked down and then gave him a knowing smile. 

“Daryllll,” she said, in a pleading, lilting voice. 

Grunting, he sat her down on the stair landing, then not-so-subtly rearranged his hard-on more comfortably inside his jeans. 

He sank down on the stairs next to her. 

“Guess we gotta talk about this, huh?” he said reluctantly. 

Her face fell. 

“That sounds ominous,” she said, quietly, looking down at her twisting hands. 

“It ain’t…it ain’t that I don’t want to,” he said, wanting to reach out and touch her, comfort her somehow, but not trusting himself right now. 

“Then why not? Because you think I’m damaged goods or something?” She asked, glaring up at him, her eyes flashing a little, the anger there hiding a well of pain. It was an expression he knew well. An expression he had felt on his face many times. 

“Don’t believe in anything like that,” he said, slowly, hoping he could make his words come out right. “Damaged goods. Would never, ever think that…wouldn’t even occur to me, you understand?”

She looked at him with big eyes, eyes that wanted to believe him but could not fully commit to it yet. 

“It’s true, though,” she said, her voice breaking a little. “Before what…what happened, I wasn’t…I didn’t have a lot of…experience. There was school, and then mom got cancer in college…she beat it, but it took all my focus. But, now, now…I can’t say that I’m a good girl.” 

At that, his heart broke a little, and he pulled her into his chest, dragging her tight into his body, one arm wrapping around her neck and burying into her hair. 

“I mean, I know how stupid that sounds,” she says, half-laughing through unshed tears. “Like, I’m a feminist, you know? I don’t believe in the concept of good girls or bad girls or sluts or anything sexist or religious like that…at least, I thought I didn’t. But, now, now, Daryl…I feel so dirty and bad.” 

Now, her tears came out in force, and he gave a small, anguished noise, and then rocked her back and forth while she cried.

“No, girl, no, no,” he said, softly, hurriedly, intensely. “You’re not dirty. You’re not bad. You’re so good, girl. You’re so good. You’re good. You’re good, girl. Good girl. Good girl. Good girl.” 

And he rocked and repeated, rocked and repeated, rocked and repeated. Until, finally, she looked up at him, her face wet and loose strands of her hair sticking to the tears. 

“But, don’t you see,” she asked. “I just want to make it better. Make myself feel better. Make it go away.” 

He shut his eyes for a moment. “Hell, I know, girl. But I ain’t gonna let you do that.” 

“Why?” she said, her fingers tightening around his flannel. 

“Because,” he said, “Means too much to me. You mean too much to me. And I want you to be here. Really here. When we do it. Not a million miles away. Not running from something. Not trying to numb out or disappear or…hurt yourself. Hurt yourself like you did back in the cabin.”

She frowned a little. “That’s not why…I know you wouldn’t hurt me. I’m not trying to punish myself. Being with you…like that…could never be a punishment.” 

He looked down at her earnest face, and got lost for a second. He was getting hard again, hard at how much she wanted him, how sexy and sweet and broken and open she was. 

“I just want to be a good man, a good man to you, baby girl,” he said, searchingly. “I don’t know how to do that…maybe I can’t even do that, can’t overcome my raisin’, but damn it, I want to try.” 

“Daryl, you ARE already a good man, are you crazy?” she asked, laughing a little and shaking her head. “Shoot, I thought I was the one who was removed from reality.” 

He lifted an eyebrow and gave her a small half-smile, blushing a little. 

Her face became serious. “Daryl, I don’t want to die having…having those men…those men being the last ones inside of me.”

Here he winced as if she had struck him, the image her words had created in his mind too vivid and painful for him to contemplate. 

“I want you to make it go away. It’s not self-harm. It’s not me trying to hurt myself. It’s washing all that away. It’s making sure…making sure I can still have that part of myself, enjoy that part of myself…because if I can’t, Daryl…if you start…and I just shut down and I can never…enjoy sex again, then, you should know that. You should know that now.” 

He felt breathless at her admissions, as if she was punching him in the gut over and over. 

“Why?” he finally choked out. “Why? Should I know that now?”

“Because…if not…if I am broken in that way”—and here he winced again—“you should know. You should know so you can be…with a real woman. With someone who can give that to you.” 

He sucked in his teeth and roughly grabbed her neck tighter, lifting and pulling her onto his lap so that she was straddling him and tucked face-first into his chest. 

“You fuckin’ break my heart when you say that shit,” he said, his throat swollen with tears. “You fucking break my heart.”

“But don’t you…don’t you understand what I mean? What if I am…what if I can’t ever be well?”

He clutched her head to him, roughly stroking her back with widespread fingers, resting his cheek on top of her silky hair. 

“You will be well, girl. You will be. I’ll make sure of it,” he promised. “And if you’re not…if you’re not…someday when we do that, if you don’t want to, or you can’t ever…that doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t change anything I feel about you.”

She looked up at him with mistrusting but hopeful eyes. 

He smiled down at her. “I want you forever. Sick or well or something in between, shit, I’ll take you anyway I can get ya, girl.” 

She blushed a little and tucked herself back into his chest. 

“Denise said,” he began hesitantly. “She said, if this was the old world, and you came to her, she would tell you not to. Not to be intimate with anyone new. Or start a new relationship. And anytime I look at you…or lay by you…and hold you or smell your skin or god damn, feel your pussy against my thigh or your tits rubbing on my arm at night…I just grit my teeth and grab onto what Denise told me. What she said. Because, I gotta do this right. I gotta do right by you, girl.” 

She was still while he talked, but then snuggled deeper into him during the silence. 

“You always do right by me, Daryl,” she said. “You don’t ever have to be nervous about that. You’re the best man I have ever known.” 

He exhaled deeply at that. 

“You’re getting better everyday, girl,” he said. “You’re doing me real proud.” 

“Better at some stuff. Remembering. Talking,” she said. “But, we won’t know…till we try, if I can…if it will hurt too bad or be too scary or make me flashback or…” 

He heard fear naked and raw in her voice. He couldn’t pretend to know the pain she had to carry now because of what those predators did to her, but in rare moments like this, he could get the smallest glimpses. And it nearly shattered him. 

“If it hurts, we stop. If it’s scary, we stop. If you go away, have a flashback, we stop,” he said, firmly, confidently, more confident than he really felt by a mile. 

“And then what?”

He shrugged. “Try again. And again. And again. Shit, I got lots of vacation days stored up.” 

She giggled and shook her head. 

“I love you, Daryl,” she said, wrapping her arms around him as far as they would go. 

He froze. 

She looked up at him. “I know I didn’t say it back, back when you first did. I wasn’t sure you meant it. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen to you, to us.”

He stared straight ahead, tension holding his body motionless and wary. 

“What is it?” she asked, a little worriedly. 

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” he said, shaking his head. “Just…caught me by surprise, girl.” 

“Oh, Daryl,” she said, and then looking up at him, she laid her hand on his face, stroking his stubbled face. “I’m gonna say it a lot now, okay?”

“Ain’t gotta,” he said, feeling a little stiff, a little foolish. 

She leaned forward and gave him a sweet, soft kiss on the side of his mouth, lingering just for a moment, 

“I know,” she said. “But it makes me happy. It makes me happy to love you and it makes me happy to say I love you.” 

He gave a small little grunt at that and ducked his head down, holding his forehead against hers. 

“We better go,” he said finally. “Don’t even know what we just walked into here.” 

She smiled. 

“Do you mean here in the hotel…or here between us?” She asked, motioning between them with her hands. 

“Naw, I know what this is,” he said, easing her out of his lap and standing up. “This is you trying to turn me into a softie.” 

She giggled as he picked her up and pulled her astride on his back.

“You’re not soft, Daryl,” she said, snuggling into his neck, but thankfully not kissing or sucking anymore, he thought, because he didn’t think his blue balls could take it. “You’re gentle and tender and noble as hell, but you’re not soft.”

He felt his cheeks go red at that. 

“Girl, I think you’re just easy to please.” 

She scoffed. “I’ll remind you of that when you hand me BeefARoni again for dinner tonight.” 

He shook his head and smiled. “Fuckin’ shit is good, girl. You need to broaden your horizons.” 

And despite his heavy crossbow, and the backpack, and the room keys, and the woman on his back, Daryl walked up the eleven flights of stairs feeling lighter than he ever had before.


	29. his and good

The honeymoon suite had two dead lovers in the heart-shaped hot tub. They were no longer a smiling, beautiful couple, but waterlogged walkers with skin so bloated and saggy that it tore from their bones like wet paper when they attempted to snarl after Daryl and Francie. 

“Next room,” said Daryl, and Francie nodded her head as fast as she could. He barely wanted to waste the effort putting a bolt through their heads—there didn’t seem any way the pair would ever be able to get out of the hot tub, but he never took chances anymore. 

“Look,” cried Francie suddenly, as they were headed out. “Her clothes are gorgeousssss.”

Daryl looked down at the expensive-looking luggage which was laying half open on the bed. He didn’t know shit about designers, but he could tell these were kind of clothes that cost $100 for a plain white t-shirt. In other words, stupid as hell, but Francie was already smiling and holding things up to her body.

“She’s my size, I bet,” she grinned. “Damn though, I’m only this size from living in an apocalypse. She must have done nothing but green juice fasts to be this slim.” 

“Well, she looks like shit now,” drawled Daryl, unimpressed but secretly pleased to see Frances’s excitement. 

“Look at all of it…oh my god, I have to go check the bathroom!” she cried suddenly.

“Why?” asked Daryl, confused. 

Then, echoing against the marble walls, he heard her sigh in pleasure. 

“What is it?” he asked, clipping down the hallway after her as fast as he could. “Don’t scamper off like that, damn.”

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just like Sephora threw up in here.”

He shook his head and smiled, looking down at her as she plucked excitedly through the dead bride’s makeup and potions all over the vanity. 

“Is that a good thing?” he asked, picking up a bottle of perfume and sniffing it suspiciously. 

“Um, yes,” she said. “I haven’t worn makeup in like…freaking ever. I don’t even know. Look at this stuff…wait, should I feel guilty I am just looting through her stuff?”

She paused and looked up at Daryl. He clucked his tongue. 

“Fuck, no,” he said, “But I’ll come back for all this shit later. Still want to find a room that is safe for us. That doesn’t have a giant vat of walker soup next to the bed.”

“Alright,” she said, sighing happily. 

“You don’t even need that stuff,” he groused as he led her out of the room. “Pretty enough without that shit.” 

She gave him a shy, pleased little smile. “It’s not about need, Daryl. It’s about…I don’t know…fun.”

But if he thought that it was only lipstick that was going to get her excited, he quickly learned otherwise. Every new room seemed to reveal some new treasure to Francie. A copy of Gone with the Wind. A room-temperature bottle of champagne. Stacks of fashion and gossip magazines from years prior. A fountain pen and with fresh notebook paper. A towel on the bed in the shape of a swan. And most importantly, completely full baskets of in-room snacks in several of the rooms. In room 43, he cracked open a tepid Heineken while she tore open a bag of M & M’s and spilled them into her hand. 

“Remember when they used to say that the green ones made you horny?” she asked, and he shook his head and gave her a smirk. 

“Why don’t we stay here?” she asked, collapsing onto the queen-size bed which was still neatly made and thumbing through the room service menu. “It’s nice. And empty. Oh, and look, they have lobster mac-and-cheese.”

He grinned at her and fell on the bed beside her, sighing deeply. His whole body felt like a bruise. “Dream on, girl,” he teased. “Whoever was in charge of making that lobster mac-and-cheese is probably eating brains somewhere.”

“Gross,” she said. “Now you ruined my appetite.”

He gave her a “yeah, right” as she tore into a package of Pringles. 

“But, seriously, what’s wrong with this room? We’ve been at this for hours.”

He looked around. “It’s small. We can do better. Besides, I would rather be closer to the ground, just in case something goes wrong.” 

She sighed and shut her eyes. 

“Plus,” he continued. “I have an idea. Place like this probably has a generator. I thought maybe I could find the mechanical room, see if I can figure out how to get it running.” 

“Power?” she breathed in disbelief, her green eyes widening. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know…but, yeah, a place like this, up in the mountains, always getting storms and snowed in nearly every season...Wouldn’t be surprised if they had a back up source of power. Just gotta figure out how to turn it on.” 

“You would know how to do that?” she asked, shaking her head at him in awe. 

He flushed a little. “Yeah, it ain’t rocket science,” he said modestly. 

“Snacks…beauty products…liquor…electricity...AND Daryl all to myself?” she said, sitting up on her forearms and smiling down at him. Then, she finished off in a yee-haw drawl. “Well, gee, I am the luckiest girl on this side of the Mason-Dixon.” 

He snorted, then said. “That’s my last name, ya know. Dixon.” 

She raised her eyebrows. “No, I didn’t,” she said, quietly, almost sadly. 

“’S wrong?” he said, curiously. 

“I don’t know,” she confessed, standing up to toss her empty chip can in the trash can. 

“Just funny to think…I didn’t even know your last name. After everything you’ve done for me. Don’t like not knowing stuff about you, I guess,” she said, laughing a little at herself. 

“Don’t know yours either,” he pointed out, sitting up and polishing off the rest of his beer in a gulp. 

“Kelly.” 

“Frances Kelly,” he said, testing it out on his tongue. 

“My friends called me Frankie. Everyone did, really. Even my students called me Miss Frankie.” 

He paused for a second. “Is that what you want me to call you?” 

She raised her brows and shook her head. “No. You’re not my friend.”

“I’m not?” he asked quietly, crossing the room to where she stood, cupping his heads around the backs of her elbows and pulling her in close to him. “So what am I supposed to call you then?”

Her cheeks went pink. “Y’know…what you already do.” 

He smiled a little at her shyness. He suspected under all her bravado and bluster about getting him into bed she was actually quite timid. He pressed on. “What’s that?” 

She cast her eyes down, making a pretty picture with her long dark eyelashes fanned out over softly blushing cheeks. 

“Girl, o-o-or, baby girl, I like that,” she whispered, so faintly it would have been impossible to hear if he hadn’t been holding her so tightly against him. 

“Yeah?” he said lowly, using one hand to lightly stroke her cheekbone and bring her eyes up to him. “You like when I call you girl? You like for me to call you baby girl?” 

Her eyes locked helplessly onto his, as if she was under some kind of spell. They were so dilated that there was just a halo of green around the black pupils. 

She parted her lips to answer, but then just nodded. 

“You like being my girl?” he asked, feeling more than a little aroused, but most importantly discovering that he liked this…this, being playfully dominant with her, watching her become needful and submissive almost instantly in his arms. 

“Yeah? You like that, huh?” he said, rubbing his thumb along the side of her neck and wrapping his wide palm around the back of it gently. “You like being my baby girl?” 

She nodded again, wide-eyed and silent, her lips still half-parted. He could feel her pulse jumping in her delicate neck, playing staccato notes on his callused fingers. 

“Such a good girl,” he breathed, his fingers raising up and gently carding through her hair. “Such a good girl.”

In another lifetime, perhaps his words might have felt regressive or inappropriate, as though he were infantilizing her, as though he were talking to her the way he might talk to a soft, purring kitten in his lap rather than a full-grown human woman. But, his instincts, his animal instincts which he always trusted in the woods with his very life, led him onward. And her bright, dilated eyes told him that he wasn’t wrong, that she wanted to hear this, that she needed to hear this, that she was good, and his…his and good. 

“C’mon,” he said after a moment, snapping out of his lustful reverie, a smiling playing on the corner of his lips as he realized she was still half-stoned and motionless. “We need to find you a bed soon. Nightfall before ya know it.” 

She nodded, still silent as he helped her on to his back. 

They didn’t speak for a while, her face curled into his neck, as he moved down the long, darkening hallway. 

And then he opened the door to room 28.


	30. Room 28

Maybe if he hadn’t been so exhausted and sore, not to mention distracted with thoughts of the submissive, sexy, lustful woman on his back, he would have head the snarls. Or the silence. Or something in between. Something which would have alerted him to the fact that this room was not like the others. 

But he didn’t. The card clicked the door open and before he could even put Francie down, walkers started to stream out, gnashing and grasping and limbs colliding as they struggled to get out of the door at the same time. 

The wave of walkers knocked Daryl back on his ass. He landed squarely on top of Francie, then shoved himself off and screamed “Run!!” at her, his hunting knife in his hand and then the head of the nearest walker before he even had time to blink. 

She didn’t make a sound and instead rolled out of the way, as he sliced and pulled, trying to hold the door shut with one hand while new walkers kept pouring out and tripping over the dead ones already piled at his heels. One crawled army-style across the hotel room carpet and he desperately turned to see it headed straight for Francie. He couldn’t let go of the door and his knife was stuck halfway in the brain matter of a dead walker in a bellboy uniform. 

“Girl!” He shouted. “Run! Fucking RUN!” 

She struggled to stand and the walker gained on her. He let go of the knife and grabbed for his crossbow, about to put a bolt through its head, when he saw Francie pick something up from the ground, shut her eyes, and then shove it down into the ground, impaling the walker through the hand with it. 

And, then, just as he was about to shoot it with its crossbow, she picked up the fire extinguisher from off the wall behind her…and rammed it down hard into the walker’s head. Daryl's mouth dropped open a little. She shrugged. 

He breathed a sigh of relief and then used his bow to shoot three successive arrows into straggling walkers coming out of room 28. 

They paused a moment, listening, waiting. 

“That’s gotta be all of them,” he said. “How many damn people staying in one room anyway?”

But as he kicked open the door, they realized it wasn’t an average hotel room, but a massive suite with a kitchenette and multiple bedrooms off the main living area. 

She followed behind him cautiously, but it still wasn’t close enough for comfort. 

“Too far away from me, girl,” he scolded her, reaching back and grasping her around the wrist. “And you ain’t listen to me when I told you to run neither.” 

“I didn’t want to leave you,” she said, tears and adrenaline making her voice shaky. 

“Don’t matter what you want,” he said crossly. “Matters what I tell you.”

He realized he sounded like a complete asshole. Truth be told, it was himself he was angry with. He was getting complacent, getting soft, all the things Merle told him would happen if he let someone in. If he started catching feelings instead of staying focused. And it could have cost Francie her life. 

But, as if she could read his mind, could sense his unease and his need for her complete closeness and obedience, she moved even tighter into him, and said, only: “Okay, Daryl.” 

He wondered at that, at her ability to gauge even his most deeply buried pain, and rather than react with anger or hurt even when he so clearly deserved it, to simply comfort him in the middle of his storm. 

Almost all of the bedrooms were filthy and well-used, the floor littered with garbage and clothes and bottles and overflowing ashtrays. It looked as though people had been camped inside this suite for a while. 

But, when they opened the last bedroom door, they were confronted with a grisly sight. In the middle of the bed was a walker, a woman…naked and tied to the bed. She was sitting up partway in bed, as much as her bindings would allow her to, and moaning and clashing her teeth together with bloodlust. 

A walker made them both gasp when he popped out from around the back of the door. He almost knocked Daryl to the ground, but Daryl slammed the bedroom door hard against the walker and tossed him off his balance. He shot him through the head with his crossbow, then turned to do the same to the female walker tied to the bed, but Francie grabbed his bicep. 

He shot a questioning look back to her. Her eyes were wide and filled with tears. He followed her gaze to the sight on the bed. It was obvious what had happened to this walker, obvious the hell she went through before death turned her into this final monstrous form. 

“Gotta put her down,” he said, quietly to Francie who had moved into the center of the room to stare at the woman wordlessly. 

“That’s like me,” she said to Daryl, not looking at him. “That’s like me.”

He frowned. He moved to the head of the bed where the woman was twisting and turning to take a piece of him. He put his knife through her head, ignoring the troubled “Oh!” Francie made as he did so.

Then, he began to untie the frayed knots around her wrists, until he finally gave up and cut them with his knife. As Francie stood watching he cut the walker’s decaying ankles free, then forcefully ripped the curtains from the nearby window. Gently, he laid the thick floral fabric on top of the dead woman, covering her nakedness. 

“Next floor,” Daryl said, picking up his crossbow and motioning for Francie to follow. 

Francie stood still, her hands twisting together. Her face was colorless and empty of expression. 

“Thank you,” she said finally. “For helping her.” 

His eyes flickered a little at that. He gave a short half-nod. 

“How long do you think they kept her here?” she asked. 

He shook his head wordlessly. Finally, when it became obvious she was rooted in spot, he picked her up and clutched her against his chest. 

“Next floor,” he repeated. But her body stayed stiff and tense in his arms, and the lighthearted mood from earlier in the day was gone. He went room by room methodically, slowly, his steps light, taking no chances of another surprise attack. 

When they got to room 17, Daryl decided it was time to stop for the night. It was a king-size suite with a living room and a small office area. The large windows gave a stunning view of the mountain and two of Shenandoah’s famous falls. Even the lavish bathroom complete with a whirlpool tub (without any long-dead lovers in it, thankfully) had floor-to-ceiling windows to make the most of the view. The room was undisturbed and clean, as tidy as when the maids must have cleaned it last, save for a thin layer of dust on every surface, even the sheets. 

He nodded his approval to Francie who was looking up at him questioningly. She had not spoken more than a word or two since their encounter on the fourth floor. 

Sighing, she reached down to take off her boots. 

“Tomorrow, I’ll go get the clothes and stuff from the other rooms,” he said. “Can lock you in here and keep you safe.” 

She nodded absently, as if she didn’t really care one way or the other. Something tugged inside of him. 

“Come here, girl,” he said, sinking onto the couch and pulling her by her wrist. 

She emitted the tiniest of sounds as he sat her in his lap. 

“You can cry about if you want, ya know,” he said, finally. He kept wondering why she didn’t. Wondered if it was cause of him, cause she didn’t want to let go in front of him, didn’t feel safe enough or sure enough of him. “It’s okay to cry. With me. To me.” 

She tucked her face into his chest and her fingers looped around his shirt sleeves, playing with the hem. 

“Can’t,” she said. “Just don’t feel anything.”

He looked down and her eyes were empty. He felt like he was looking over the side of a cliff. This was worse than a crying Francie, a cutting Francie…this was if someone had erased her with a big pink school eraser and left nothing behind the faintest pencil shadow. 

He sighed sorrowfully, but said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. Perhaps there was nothing. 

So they sat there, quiet on the couch. Not tearing apart the mini-fridge. Not jumping on the overstuffed bed. Not marveling at the view. Not trying on the clean, soft robes or marveling at plush carpet under their bare feet. 

Outside, the sun set. Its rays were pink and orange and golden, and its hues unfurled across the sky just for them, but they didn’t see the colors. Not tonight. 

Tonight, Francie sat and hurt. And Daryl sat and hurt with her. 

Tomorrow, he thought, they might see the sunrise. But tonight there was pain. He tightened his arms around her. 

“We’ll bury her tomorrow,” he said. “And you can bring her flowers whenever you want, girl. Go talk to her whenever you want. Think she would like that.” 

Francie looked up at him. Let out a little exhale. The hurt was still there, still sharp and raw in every corner of her brave little face. But it was lesser with him there, he saw, and that meant everything. 

Yeah, it would be a beautiful sunrise.


	31. gonna take as long as it takes

When Daryl woke the next morning, he found himself half-slumped in a seated position on the couch, Frances curled up with her head in his lap and her small hands clutched around his thigh. His whole body ached, and the sky was only just beginning to lighten, but he was wide-awake, already churning with energy at the thought of all he had to do. He had formed a clear plan in his head of what steps he needed to take in order to secure the hotel from both walkers and other survivors, namely the Saviors, and there was no time to waste as far as he was concerned. They were on borrowed time as long as Negan and Simon were after them, hell, as long as the dead were still walking. 

His first mission, even before getting the generator running (or trying to get the generator running, because he had to admit, he wasn’t as confident in his engineering skills as he pretended to be to Francie), was to get the first floor of the hotel secured. There were a number of entrances he wanted to board up, including fire exits and other back entrances, but once that initial step was done, he also wanted to completely barricade the grand staircase. This would effectively cut them off from the ground floor entirely, except for a small employee-only stairwell which led to the kitchen, laundry facility, and the grounds. They could lock this door, and blockade it with furniture and other heavy items as necessary. 

He hated to take this step, not because he was afraid of the work involved in barricading off the grand staircase, because there was a massive fireplace in the lobby which would be perfect for both cooking and warmth come winter time, But there was just no way he could ever secure the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that spanned the reception hall and lobby. All it would take was one walker, or one living person, to bust through a window, and any intruders would be able to swarm into the hotel inside within seconds. 

Of course, barricading the grand staircase would not be a perfect permanent solution in event of an attack, but it would give Francie and Daryl plenty of warning and time to escape. And, so, as Francie gently stirred, he lifted her off him and eased off the couch.

Handing her a box of Lucky Charms and a mini bottle of water from the snack tray, he talked her through his plan. He would need to take countless doors off the hinges, because he wanted to use the fireproof stairwell doors to both barricade the grand staircase and as added protection, in case anyone tried to break into the other entrances around the hotel. 

As expected, she instantly offered to help, but he shut her down without listening to a word of it. 

“You’re just barely back on your feet, ain’t no way you’re carrying heavy metal doors up and down stairs,” he said shortly, and she could tell from the defeated look on her face that she knew he was right. 

“I want to help you,” she said. “I can’t just sit here.” 

“If you want to help me, that’s exactly what you will do,” he said. 

And for the first couple of days, she did. But soon, even he had to admit that he was being too over-protective, thought she bore it patiently. Finally, he let the stir-crazy girl explore the hotel, provided she never strayed out of his sight.

But as the days wore on and the back-breaking labor continued, she ventured out more and more on her own, first helping him by carrying his tools or bringing him food and water, and then she started exploring the industrial-sized kitchen on her own. 

A new rhythm developed between them. He spent the days cutting wood, carrying doors, lugging furniture, and she spent the days painstakingly washing their laundry by hand, or making stews, or cornbread, or rolling out fresh pasta. Sometimes she was idle, and he would find her reading a book, or curled up on the window seat staring into the wild, but for the most part, she stayed as busy as he did. Even when he urged her to slow down, she would insist that she didn’t want to sit still, and he could sense a need in her to stay active, stay busy…never to sit too long or too quiet with her own thoughts. 

This bothered him, when he had the time or the energy to bring his awareness to it. He didn’t know much about healing, but he guessed it shouldn’t involve running away from the pain, which is what Francie seemed to be doing when she was washing her umpteenth bedsheet for the day. Despite his insistence that it wasn’t necessary, she was focused on cleaning and preparing all the rooms on their floor, as though she had somehow turned into a Pollack maid and needed to get all the suites prepared for guests.

“It’s better to have them ready, just in case,” she said, cleaning trash out of the rooms and wiping down the surfaces till they shone. 

“Just in case Mother Mary comes looking for a room?” he quipped, but he noticed she didn’t smile. 

They worked alongside each other in the day, and they slept alongside each other in the night, but he felt like she was only tethered there, like an astronaut to a spaceship, her floating in space and him looking at a small, round window at her hovering form. 

As promised, he had buried the walker from room 28 outside, just beside a copse of linden trees to the west of the hotel. He took her there in the evenings when she asked, and he stood as far away as was safely possible, sensing that Francie wanted to be alone with the grave and the grief. Some evenings she cried, hard, racking sobs that left her shaking in the wintry air, the skinny skeleton arms of the linden trees blowing and clawing the sky beside her. Many evenings she was silent, and sat on her knees with her hands in her lap, a watchful void staring wordlessly at the disturbed earth. 

And one evening, when he asked her if she wanted to go to the grave, she simply said: “Not tonight. Not anymore.” 

He wanted to know more, to question her, but he felt he hadn’t the right. As much as he tried to shoulder the pain with her, he could feel that there were some pieces she just couldn’t share with him, some memories that she carried alone for the sole reason that she would not bring him suffering by sharing them. 

So instead, he worked, as feverishly and single-mindedly as a beaver building a dam, and he let her quiet, tethered form float beside him. 

Until one day, he remembered something from their first day at the Pollock—the journal and fountain pens from the top floor which had brought her such joy. As soon as he recalled them, he instantly stopped what he was doing and went to fetch them, his animal intuition seizing and sparking with certainty inside of him.

That night, he left them on the nightstand near her side of the bed. Her gaze fell on the items curiously. 

“Thought, maybe, maybe you could write a little,” he said. “If you wanted to.”

“Write what?” she asked confused, running her fingers down the leather-bound cover of the empty book. 

“All the things you’re scared to tell me. All the things that keep you up at night.” 

“I don’t stay up at night,” she lied, and he nodded, pretending to believe her as he pulled the covers over them both. 

“Thank you, Daryl,” she said, quietly. Then, after a pause, she added, “I’m sorry I’ve been so…so—”

Here her words faltered, and she just shook her head and gave up the attempt to put words to her mood, instead falling down on top of his chest, tucking into her usual spot. Like a puzzle piece sliding into place, like a sun sinking into the horizon. He smiled a little. 

“You fit me, girl,” he said. She smiled at that, looking up at him and nodding in pleased, sleepy agreement. 

“I fit you,” she repeated. 

They were silent for a moment, reveling in the peace and comfort of the soft warm bed, a luxury neither would ever take for granted again. 

“It’s gonna take as long as it takes,” he said. “We just keep working, and keep taking care of each other. And it will just take as long it takes.”

He knew she would understand what he meant, that she would know he wasn’t talking about securing the grand staircase or stockpiling firewood or working on the generator. She knew. 

“But I don’t take care of you,” she finally said, a little faux pout on her face as she glanced up at him. 

“Hell, you’re a regular June Cleaver, cooking and cleaning and looking after me all day,” he drawled, half-teasing, but half-serious. He never had a woman take care of him before, except for Carol, but that didn’t count, because Carol took care of everyone. Not just him. He never had just one woman all to himself, thinking about him, wondering what would make his life more comfortable, cooking meals with his tastes in mind. His mama sure never did that, and he would never have let a woman in the old world even stay the night in his shithole of a trailer, let alone cook him dinner or put fresh flowers on the table. 

“That’s because I’m too useless to help with the real work,” she said, and her fake pout became a serious one now. 

“The hell you mean?” he said, looking down at her in concern, tucking her hair off her neck and grasping it loosely in one of his fists. “You’re making this place a home.”

“But you have a home already, Daryl,” she said quietly. “You’re doing all this work…killing yourself all day, all because of me. You could be home with your family.” 

He looked down at her, at her broken, hurting little face, pain twisting in her eyes and making her look almost child-like. 

“You’re my family, baby girl,” he said. 

Her eyes crinkled a little at that, and a tear came down her cheek.

“You’re my family,” he repeated, letting go of her hair and wiping the tear off her soft, warm face. She clutched his hand in hers and brought it to her lips, giving a contented mewl as she kissed his scarred knuckles. 

“And this is our home,” he said. “And you don’t ever have to apologize for being sad, or quiet, or any of that. It’s just gonna take as long as it takes. Right?”

She smiled weakly at him, nodding through her tears. 

“Right,” he said. “Now go to sleep so you can get up early and make me breakfast.” 

She giggled and swatted his chest. 

“I mean it!” he insisted, chuckling and squirming as she tried to tickle him. “No damn oatmeal either.” 

She shook her head laughing, “How about cold poptarts?” 

“Hell, yeah,” he said. “See? What would I do without you?” 

His words were flippant, but as they both succumbed to sleep in the darkened room, his words kept ringing in his head. What would I do without her? What would I do? What would I do?


	32. Doesn't seem fair

The next morning, Daryl woke up to the sound of delighted shrieks. He blinked his eyes open and saw Francie glowing with joy beside him. She was sitting up in bed, staring down at her lap, saying “Thank you, Jesus, Thank you, Jesus” over and over. 

He sat up in confusion and looked down, then blushed a little. She was wearing just a camisole and white cotton panties…white cotton panties with a bright, red stain right in the center of them. She was looking down at the splotch of blood with unfettered relief. 

“I thought I was pregnant with his baby,” she said, and then she burst into happy yet heartbroken sobs, “With o-o-one of their babies, I mean.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, girl?” he demanded in shock, and for some reason, he found himself reaching out and cupping her pussy through her panties, as if he was trying to heal her in some way with his touch, trying to feel that she was whole and safe and here with him. 

She gasped a little at his touch, her tears stopping and her lips parting in surprise. 

“I mean it,” he said, applying pressure to his fingers, leaning into his grasp on her soft, warm cunt. “Why didn’t you tell me, girl?”

She shook her head helplessly, and reached out for his hand, wrapping her hands around his wrist. 

“Ain’t mind ya keeping secrets from me,” he said finally, finding it hard to think while his hands were on her pussy. “But not big secrets. Not secrets that could hurt you. Not secrets that leave you alone and scared.” 

“But…what could you have done?” she breathed, her eyes fluttering open and shut and he swore she was gently, almost imperceptibly, starting to grind her cunt into his hand. “Would have…worried for nothing.” 

Her words were coming slow and desperate, as if she was hunting in the deepest recess of her brain to find each one. 

“Worrying about you ain’t worrying about nothing,” he said, smiling at the pretty little mess she was turning into from his simplest touch. “Can’t keep secrets like that from me, baby girl.” 

His voice turned stern, almost authoritative. He wasn’t playing. He really couldn’t believe that she would hold back something like this, couldn’t believe she would lay awake tortured every night, not knowing if her rapist’s baby was growing inside of her, but never, ever saying a word about it to him. 

“I’m sorry, Dar-Daryl,” she said, and now he knew he wasn’t imagining it, she was definitely grinding her pussy into his palm. 

“Naw, I ain’t rewarding you for being a bad girl,” he teased, starting to take his hand away, but her clutched hands around his wrist prevented it. 

“Daryl,” she breathed out unsteadily. 

“What do you want, girl?” 

“You know,” she just whined, opening her eyes and biting her bottom lip needfully. 

“Hmm,” he said, thoughtfully, as if trying to solve a tough math equation. “Naw, I ain't sure…”

She glared at him. He laughed, and then leaned down and kissed her hard on the mouth, forcing her lips open and exploring her with his tongue. She groaned in happy surprise, and he climbed on top of her, laying her back down on her pillow as he stretched his weight on top of her. When he removed his hand from her pussy, she let out a sad sound, and he gripped her right tit hard through her tank top in response. 

He pulled away from the kiss finally, then rolled off her and put his hand on her belly. His fingers drifted around the top of her panties but no further. She made another pained noise, and he looked at her, expecting to see her face lustful, but instead surprised to find her looking pained. 

“’S wrong, baby girl?” he asked, instantly concerned that he took it too far, hurt her in some way…hadn’t even thought about whether she might be injured down…down there or if…

As if reading his thoughts, she shook her head. “It’s not you. Cramps.”

He frowned and looked down at her belly, but she just rolled over and curled into herself. 

“Sorry,” she breathed. “I always get them really bad.” 

He gently stroked her hair, then moved the strap of her tank top down, and kissed her bare shoulder. 

“I’ll make you something warm to drink,” he said. “You just rest.” 

She tried to argue. “No, Daryl, you have lots you wanted to do today…I know how busy you are. I’ll be okay. I just need to lay here a while.” 

“Hell, no,” he said. “Not until I help you feel better.”

“Daryl,” she breathed, her face twisting a little as she closed her eyes and gripped her stomach. “I’ll be okay. It’s just cramps.”

He shook his head in disbelief. He never had a serious girlfriend before, and he didn’t have sisters or close female friends, so this was a mystery to him. “But you’re hurting so bad.”

“No,” she said. “I mean, yes. But it’s fine. It’s normal. It’s good. It’s what I’ve been praying for.” 

He looked down at her doubtfully. “Doesn’t seem right. Doesn’t seem fair.” 

She laughed a little. “Um, yeah, women have been saying that for centuries.” 

He didn’t move off the bed until she urged him to get to his work, promising that she would be fine. 

“I’ll come up with something for lunch,” he said. “Just let me get those last few exits downstairs bolted down, and the rest can wait till tomorrow.” 

She nodded briefly, but he got the feeling she wasn’t really listening. 

“Okay,” he said, finally, getting off the bed. “But we gotta talk later about this. About why you didn’t tell me this.” 

“Most girls don’t talk about their periods with their…” Here her voice trailed off as she was uncertain what to say, finally ending with “…with their Daryls.” 

“Ain’t what I mean and you know it,” he said, resisting the urge to push further since she was in so much pain. But he was more than a little disturbed that this possibility hadn’t even occurred to him, that this whole time he had been barricading danger from the outside, when it could have been inside all along. It was an eerie, startling feeling, and he hated knowing that she didn’t come to him with her fears. 

She didn’t respond, and so he let himself out of the hotel room after he pulled on his jeans and boots. Distressed and confused as he was by this turn of events, he found himself also incredibly aroused. His dick was so hard he knew he wouldn’t be able to focus until he took care of it, and so standing there in the hallway of the Pollock, Daryl grasped his cock in his hands and stroked himself till he came. 

Shuddering with a low groan, he looked down and saw there was a small stripe of blood on his cock…his fingers were still wet from her, he realized. He sucked his fingers clean. More than he ever wanted anything in his life, he wanted to go bury his cock so, so, so deep into her pussy but he also felt overwhelmingly compelled to protect her from him. Protect her from what exactly, he wasn’t sure. 

It wasn’t just because he wanted to be mindful of her past and her need for space and healing. It was also because on some level he feared that he wanted things from her that weren’t right. Weren’t what a good man would want from her. Not what a man like Rick would want from Michonne or a man like Glenn would have wanted from Maggie. When he stroked his hard, thick cock and thought about her, he found his fantasies careening wildly away from him, away from just thoughts of her sweet little pussy and soft tits, to thoughts of her being submissive and biddable, to thoughts of her being his to command and yielding entirely to him. He wanted to ravage her, to push her past the point of no return, to break her open and put the pieces back together by himself.

This was sick. He hated himself for thinking like this. It was new to him, and not the way he ever felt about a woman in the past. His sexual experiences had been many, with a variety of faceless, nameless one-stands, and a few friends-with-benefits along the road at the motorcycle clubs and various bars Merle would frequent. He enjoyed sex with most of them, at least in a general, physical sense, but it meant nothing, and it often left him cold and sometimes depressed. He fucked a lot, but he could take it or leave it, going months without sex if it seemed like too much trouble to pursue a prospect. He never thought about a woman afterward. He thought them during, a little bit, of course. He cared about being consensual and respectful and gentle, and making sure they came, too, but otherwise…sex was a solo act for him, no matter who he was with. 

But now, even when masturbating, sex was anything but solo. He thought of nothing and no one but Francie, and the depth of his feelings for her, and the incessant blue balls he had as a result must have been why he was thinking of these dark, intense fantasies. Must have been why his feelings for her bordered on the extreme, the obsessive. Why he wanted to do more than just fuck her, why he wanted to possess her entirely, why he wanted to watch her shatter before him with nothing but his name on her lips. 

Whatever the reason he felt this way, it wasn’t good and he needed to snap out of it. He would never do anything to hurt Francie…even if it meant his cock was almost always hard and he thought of little else all day but her pussy. Her pussy and his cum deep within it, instead on the floor of the Pollock. He bit his thumbnail to the quick. Fuck, he thought. Fuck.


	33. exiting room 17

A childhood of poverty and neglect ensured that Daryl grew up learning to fend for himself from an early age. As such, he never shied away from hard labor, especially not physical labor. Years of living hand-to-mouth on the road with Merle ensured that he worked in a variety of industries, from working on bikes to farm labor to maintenance work to road work, willing to accept little pay in exchange for back-breaking labor, provided he could live his life as he chose and as far outside of society as possible. And in this new world, he was in peak physical condition, rarely indulging in his vices of drinking and smoking, and certainly not eating too many $1 hot dogs from the gas station. 

So, when he worked, he worked with his whole body and soul. He was tireless and dogged at whatever task was before him, and Rick, Michonne and Carol would often gripe at him for pushing himself too hard. Now, with Francie to protect, his energy and strength seemed to have doubled. He did the work of three men in the span of a day, and then would wake up the next morning before daybreak to do the same all over again. 

Today was no different. After leaving Francie in their hotel room, he set to work finishing the most pressing tasks on his to-do list. Although he had promised Francie he would be back by lunch time, it wasn’t until well near sundown that he came back to himself and realized he never checked in on her. It wasn’t that he had not thought about her—he had, of course, but he simply hadn’t noticed the passing of time, a problem he had in the old world, which was complicated in this new existence thanks to the lack of clocks and smartphones and television. Before Francie, he only knew two times: Day and night, and so it was with horror that he realized he hadn’t checked on her once, and that he had completely missed bringing her lunch as promised.

Wiping the sweat off his brow and pulling off his soaked t-shirt, Daryl took the steps three at a time. Normally he would have stopped and bathed first (they used the bathtub in room 15, with water Daryl got from the pump outside), and put on clean clothes, but he was too panicked. He suddenly had the desperate, crushing feeling that something was wrong. Why hadn’t Francie come to find him? That was part of the reason he had grown negligent of checking the time or coming after her—she always found him first, as if reading his mind, she would appear beside him just half a minute before he called for her or quit his task to come find her. 

But today, she hadn’t come once. He felt like a fucking piece of shit for not realizing that till just now, for being so thoughtless and focused on the barricade that he hadn’t thought to check on the small girl in pain upstairs. 

Taking the rest of the stairs at a clip, tossing his t-shirt on the hallway floor, he shouted her name over and over again. She didn’t answer. He raced down to the end of the hallway and threw open their hotel room door, knowing before he did so that he wouldn’t find her there. 

And he didn’t. Their bed was made but empty, and though he could faintly smell the musky, sweet perfume she had been using, she was nowhere to be found.  
He continued shouting her name, slamming doors and checking every room on their floor, panic numbing his insides until he could feel nothing, not even his own body. He felt like his body was numb, like he was floating above himself, watching his searching, terrified self as if from another dimension. 

She’s gone, gone forever, said a voice in his head, and it didn’t sound like Merle’s, or his own, but God’s or some other divine force. Some divinely evil force that would always, always bring disaster and tragedy to anyone dumb enough to think they could be happy in this cruel corpse-shell of a world. 

He wasn’t sure if he was still calling her name. He wouldn’t have been sure his feet were really moving except the scenery before him was changing, floor 3, floor 4, floor 5, every room, every closet, even room 28…the room they hadn’t entered for nearly a month since they moved in. 

But she was nowhere. She was nowhere. She was gone. 

He sunk to the ground. His mouth hung open in despair, his breaths came ragged and fast. He felt like the walls were closing in. His throat was tight and hard and dry. Even though it was nearly winter and he was shirtless, he was sweating profusely, his bare chest slick with glistening sweat. 

Then, staring at the destroyed bed where they found the walker he buried, he thought of something. The one place he hadn’t checked. The grave. 

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, he ran down the stairs, tripping and falling over his combat boots but grabbing the railing just in time, steeling his balance and then continuing at the same breakneck pace. She wouldn’t really go outside by herself, would she? Would she? There is no way she would…no way she would, would she? 

He ran to the only exit still unbarred, the employee exit which the workers must have used as a smoke break area during their shifts. He had kept it locked and barred, only using it to fetch water and when he went outside for wood or to walk Francie to the grave. But now, confronted with the door, he saw it was locked (which it did automatically) but that the wooden bars which held it in place were laying on the ground. 

He shut his eyes. He imagined himself evaporating, felt as though his body was losing form. He knew once he opened the door, it was over. Knew he would find her chewed up, with walkers tearing her soft, sweet flesh from her bones, knew he would have to put her down the same way he did his brother. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He would let her have him. Let her sink her teeth into him. Turn him into a monster. It’s what he deserved, it’s what he wanted. It would hurt less than this. 

He silently pushed the door open. At first, he saw nothing. The woods. The cigarette butts. The abandoned picnic table where Pollock employees ate tuna sandwiches and bitched about shitty tourists. The piles of wood pallets he had been sawing to fit the stairwell. The grave…the grave, he looked there last, forcing himself to turn to the small heap of dirt and mulch, fully expecting to see Francie’s newly- dead and newly-diseased body lurching there or somewhere nearby. 

Instead, he saw nothing. Nothing but a fresh collection of silverods and Indian tobacco which let him know she had indeed been there. But…now…  
He should have rushed to the grave to find her tracks. Should have instantly switched into hunter mode. Should have. But didn’t. Sat there on his knees. Broken and bare-chested and feeling as though he had been flayed alive. 

And then, a sound, a sound, he daren’t believe it, a sound that was so perfectly Francie, so clearly his girl, letting out a small, clear cry.

“Daryl!” she called and his head swiveled immediately to the direction it came from…and it came from up. Frowning in confusion, he craned his neck and saw Francie perched in one of the linden trees beside the grave, her bare dirty feet swinging in the air. 

“I got locked out,” she stuttered out. “I—I hid up here to wait. I didn’t know what else to do.” 

He gave himself a moment to sink deeper into the earth and put his head in his hands. Then, he stormed to the tree, where Francie was painfully descending and cringing each time her bare feet came into contact with the bark.

“A walker came,” she said, whispering really, as she slipped from the tree and stood with difficulty in front of Daryl. “I, I threw my boots to distract him…it worked, I think, but…”

She twisted her head around anxiously as if unsure whether the walker would pop out at any moment. 

Daryl said nothing. He couldn’t choose from one of the million thoughts raging inside his head, couldn’t find any clarity in the emotions of relief, anger, fear, panic, joy, and horror battling inside of him. 

Instead, he just picked her up abruptly, noticing with a bit of surprise how cold she was, when he felt like a furnace that could combust at any moment. 

He didn’t speak to her as he carried her inside and sat her on the stairs, re-barring the door. He didn’t speak to her when he picked her back up again and carried her up the stairs, all the way up to their room. 

He didn’t speak when he sat her on the bed. When he slumped on the floor next to it. When his fists clenched against his thighs as he shamefully let tears fall down his face. 

Francie gave a desolate cry at this, and climbed awkwardly off the bed to try and clutch onto him, but he pushed her off. He stood, moving away from her, feeling like his skin was on fire, feeling like every emotion he had run away from for the last four decades had suddenly come to find him all at once. 

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, sobs now shaking her small frame, as she stumbled to clutch after him again. 

Her fingers were like ice, like she was a corpse and he hadn’t figured it out yet. He whirled around at her touch and hissed, “The FUCK were you thinking? The FUCK—the FUCK---you got a fuckin’ death wish, is that it? You want to be eaten alive by walkers? You want that? You want me to have to see that? That’s how little you care about me?” 

She shook her head savagely back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, at each new roar he unleashed at her. 

“Yeah? Yeah? You’d rather be dead than live here with me?” he lashed out.

“Please—Daryl—please—I’m sorry---I’m so, so so—

“Fuck!” he bellowed, and then he slammed his fist into the wall, but in the split second before he hit the plaster, Francie was there, closer than he realized, and cowering, cowering in utter terror…and then she clutched her head in self-defense as the wall cracked beside her. 

With her eyes squeezed shut, she stood there, shaking, and for a brief moment, he wondered why a minor crack in the wall terrified her so badly, but then he realized she had thought his fist was coming for her. She had thought…he was going to hit her. 

He looked down at the carpet, struck into silence. 

She opened her eyes and looked at the wall, then his heartbroken face. 

“It was a reflex,” she said. “A reflex…I know you wouldn’t hit me, I know that.”

And her reassurance was passionate and desperate, but ultimately meaningless. That look. That look she had. He knew that look. His mom used to wear it all the time, whenever his dad was around. So funny. After all this time, thinking he was better than his old man…shit, not in Francie’s eyes. And could he blame her? Roaring and screaming and punching walls like a psychopath? 

“I’m staying next door tonight,” he finally said. “Don’t leave this room again.” 

Her mouth fell open and she clutched for her face like he really had struck her. 

And then he exited room 17, slamming the door so hard the hallway shook


	34. him she was running from

Daryl smoked Marlboro after Marlboro, draining the Jack Daniels he brought up from the bar downstairs. He had taken Francie a bottle of water and a bowl of soup from the kitchen, but rather than open the door and hand it to her, he had just knocked and left it outside the room. 

Then, skipping dinner himself, he sat there, on the floor beside the large, dark window, staring into the black nothing and attempting to get drunk. But the liquor didn’t seem go anywhere, just floated around in his belly and made the room dim and dizzy, but did nothing to cure the haunting emptiness and self-hatred inside of him. 

He could hear Francie quietly moving in the room next to him. The sound of splashing in the sink as she brushed her teeth and washed her face with the pumped water he brought up each day. The sound of drawers opening and shut as she changed her clothes. The sounds of inconsolable little sobs as she cried quietly by herself. 

At this, the storm inside of him only raged harder. He knew he was the cause of her tears, the cause of her pain, but he felt trapped by his own blood, his own genes. He was caged, warped, stunted, corroded beyond repair. He thought he could maybe, maybe supersede this, power through this, and become something akin to a man, something akin to a man she deserved, but all it took was one moment—one brief moment—and he saw it all in her face. And she was right. She was right to be scared. To doubt him. To cringe from his anger. 

He was his father’s son. 

Daryl took another drink. 

And another. 

And another. 

Sometime later, sometime between another drink and another drink and another cigarette and another piss, he fell asleep. Head against the cold window, he escaped into a dreamless haze, but then, a sound brought him to full and sober attention. 

Standing immediately, he ran into the hallway and grabbed for Francie’s door, throwing it open without knocking and bolting inside. 

She was in bed, twisting wildly in the sheets, her bare legs trapped in them as she fought ferociously inside whatever nightmare held her hostage. 

He sighed. His first instinct was to wake her, pick her up in his arms, snuggle into bed beside her. But now, he hesitated. It could be him she was dreaming about, him she was running from. He stood there beside the bed, watching her cry and fight, and then she gasped out, “Daryl, Daryl, Daryl!” and her voice was pleading, wretched. 

He sank next to the bed on his knees, and grabbed one of her hands in his. Putting pressure there, he said lowly, “I’m here, girl, wake up, girl.” 

She fought more, her whole body shaking feverishly, but she clutched his hand, and then, with a startled sound, she woke up. 

She stared at the ceiling for a moment, and then at him, her eyes focusing in confusion as she saw him on the floor. Then memory dawned on her face as the events of last night returned to her mind. 

The first thing she said was:

“I know you would never hit me.”

He instantly rose to his feet, not wanting to hear this, but she held tightly onto his hand. 

“I KNOW it, Daryl. I swear on everything, on my life, on my mother’s memory, on every fucking sacred thing left in this unsacred world,” she said, digging her nails into his hand as he looked off to the side of the room, refusing to meet her eyes. “But, you have to understand…they hit me everyday. All the time. If I talked back. If I didn’t…if I didn’t act like I liked it. If I did act like I liked it. If I said no. Or if I said yes. Or if I said nothing. It didn’t matter. The rules were always changing. I could never make them happy.”

He closed his eyes and shrank back into the carpet, laying his forehead on top of their clasped hands. 

“So, I just…it’s just part of me, now. Before, when I was out of it, nothing seemed real. I didn’t seem real. The only thing that felt real was you. You and your heart and your tenderness and your fearlessness and the way you held me, the way you helped me,” she said. “But, now, you see…I’m coming back. I’m feeling more real. More here. Which is good, but…it’s all so loud and bright and sharp and…it’s hard to get used to.” 

Daryl rubbed the stubble of his beard on her soft hand. What she was saying was true. He had noticed lately how jumpy she was, how she would fairly leap into the air if he dropped a tool, how she would move as quietly as possible, or how she was forever looking over her shoulder or around corners as if expecting someone to jump out at her. He had been too busy to really comment on it, had been too worried about her other emotional disturbances, the way she had been so quiet and morose and closed off. 

“Daryl, I know you would never hit me,” she said, leaning down and putting her head on top of his, her hair drifting down on his bare neck and back, shrouding him in darkness. “I know you would never hit any woman. You have to believe me. You have to believe that. Because, not believing it…not believing me…thinking that I am actually scared of you, that I am anything other than whole-heartedly, devotedly, entirely in love with you is so heart-breaking I can’t bear it.” 

“Loving me doesn’t make me a good man,” he said. “Lots of good women love assholes. I oughta know.”

She let out a long, sad sigh, and then stroked her fingernails up and down his scarred back. 

“How can I tell you…how can I explain…I love you and trust you so much, Daryl, that sometimes I actually…”

And here she paused and her voice became lower and more nervous. 

“I actually touch myself sometimes and think about…about you hurting me.” 

His head flew up that, eyes narrowing in the darkness as he searched her face in bewilderment. 

“I mean, not hurting me, like…like the kind of hurting you’re talking about, but…the good kind,” she said.

He kept his eyes locked on her, cocking his head to the side as he tried to make sense of this. 

“I mean, I don’t know what I mean…I’m just saying, if I didn’t trust you, why would I think about that? It’s because I trust you so entirely that I want to give myself to you in every possible way, that I want you to completely control my body and heart, that I know I can be safe in doing that, that I know you would take care of me, that you do take care of me, everyday, like I’m a precious thing.”

A ragged exhale tore from his lips. 

“You are a precious thing,” he said, lust making his voice huskier and his drawl thicker than usual. 

She smiled. He said nothing, staring at her, looking up at her small, curled body on the bed, her bare arms glowing in the mild stream of moonlight filtering in the window, her lips curling coquettishly around her small, white teeth. 

“I missed you,” she said. 

He snorted a little at that. “I was only gone for a few hours,” but he knew exactly what she meant because he had felt a gaping hole in his chest since leaving her in this room. 

“Don’t laugh at me. Make me feel better,” she said, pouting. 

He shook his head and smiled a little. “Tell me how, girl."

She paused, and then looked up at him from under cast-down lashes.

“Hold me and tell me I’m your good girl,” she requested quietly. “Hold me and sleep by me so I can wake up with your hard cock buried into me like every other morning.” 

His mouth fell open a little at that, and he laughed. “Damn, I thought I was pretty good at hiding that.” 

“No offense, Daryl, but I don’t think that can be hidden,” she teased as he got off his knees and climbed into bed next to her. 

“Hell, no offense taken, girl. Damn fine compliment,” he said, and she laughed, silver ripples in the night, as he grasped onto her from behind, pulling her into his body and wrapping his arms around her. 

“Babygirl,” he said, in the quiet after she stopped laughing. “Babygirl.”

And then, they both fell asleep, this time to a slumber that was not a trapdoor but a comfort.


	35. a key and a keeper

When Daryl woke up the next morning, he found Francie almost entirely draped on top of him, as if she was afraid he would escape during the night. Her skin was smooth but cold, and he was reminded again that winter would soon begin in earnest. 

Unlike most tourists, Merle and Daryl often came to Shenandoah Falls during the off-season, so Daryl was well-acquainted with the fact that the weather could dip 20 degrees or lower up in the mountains. The area was prone to dangerous winter storms which made the narrow, winding roads icy and impassable, not that they were going anywhere. But, still, it would make for a very long, dark, cold winter. He really needed to get that generator running. 

He pulled the covers tighter around Francie’s bare shoulders, and she snuggled deeper against his chest in response, emitting a tired coo. 

“Gotta get up soon, girl,” he said gruffly. “Want to go work.” 

As relieved as he was that Francie was alright and that she forgave him for his anger and drunkenness the night before, now that he was awake (and grouchy, and a little hungover), he wanted answers for what happened yesterday. 

She sighed and stretched lazily. Normally, Daryl would get up first, and she would come find him with coffee and oatmeal, or pancakes, or cereal, or canned fruit, or whatever she scrounged up for breakfast. 

But not today, he decided. Not anymore. 

As if sensing his mood, she peeked an eye open at him. 

“Damn it,” she sighed. 

“Huh?” 

“Thought I might escape without a lecture,” she said, pouting a little at him and rolling off his chest, rubbing at her eyes with closed fists. 

“Ain’t gonna be no lecture,” he said, eyeing her unhappily. “Ya ain’t my daughter. Not gonna ground you.”

She looked at him in disbelief. 

“Well, I guess I am, but not by taking away your cell phone or something,” he said, turning on his side to gently stroke her hair off her face. 

“I can’t be alone anymore?” she asked. 

“Hell, no,” he said. “No more wandering around for you. Clipping ya wings. The hell were you thinking anyway, girl?” 

She shook her head and sat up. 

“I just…I don’t know,” she confessed. “I was so happy I finally…so happy I wasn’t pregnant. I had been so worried. So sick with worry. I kept thinking of his baby growing inside of me…then realizing, I wouldn’t even know, I didn’t even know…whose baby it would be.” 

Her voice didn’t break. He sat up too and looked deep in her eyes. They were dry and clear, but exhausted. 

“I was happy, but also…just, overwhelmed with it all. And I, needed, needed to be with another woman,” she said, looking down at her lap. “Not you. You know?” 

He understood. Hell, he more than understood. He didn’t know why someone who had endured what she did would ever want to be around another man again, let alone a man like him who was all rough edges and redneck manners. But it did make him feel guilty as hell, though. He had her trapped up in here in a damn empty hotel with no human contact, except for him. 

She looked up at him with a heavy look at her face, but it evaporated when he gave her a small, encouraging smile. 

“I know, girl,” he said. “Shit, I ain’t gonna hold that against you…but you can’t ever go outside without me. I can’t believe you would ever think that’s okay, especially knowing what’s out there and who’s after you.” 

“I’m a big girl, Daryl,” she said, a little irritation in her words. 

He shrugged, and eyed her playfully. “Ain’t that big.” 

She giggled and swatted his arm. 

Joking aside, Daryl stayed true to his plan to clip Francie’s wings. He never let her roam free in the hotel anymore, and she accompanied him dutifully everywhere he went, even on his long, cold treks setting up animal traps in the surrounding woods. 

Even when they were eating in the kitchen, reading in the bedroom, or sitting on the hotel roof while he smoked, he was constantly grasping onto her hand, grabbing onto her leg, loosely looping his fingers around her neck or wrist, forever seeking physical contact with her. If it annoyed her, she made no mention of it, and seemed instead to submissively and even happily accept his evident need to reassure himself of her safety and physical presence. 

But, as it turned out, his compulsion took a dangerous turn one day when he was sawing wood for the barricade outside. Francie was sitting nearby him, as per his orders, quietly flipping through a magazine and painting her toenails. But he was extra anxious that morning, perhaps because of a nightmare he had about Simon the night before, and so he constantly kept half-turning his head to check on her, to make sure she was still safe and secure beside him. It was foolish, and he should have known better, did know better, but he could not control his anxiety, and so—on one last ill-advised gaze away from the saw, he sliced into his hand. 

Even before he could groan out in pain, Francie had leaped to her feet beside him, her hands soft and swift and cool as she frantically grabbed for his injured hand. There was a deep gash between his thumb and forefinger, and it was pulsing out blood at a rapid rate. 

“You’re hurt,” was all she said, desolate and concerned, but if he thought she would fall apart at the sight or become overwhelmed by the sheer volume of blood spilling from him, he was wrong.

Instead, she became almost preternaturally calm, pulling off her flannel and wrapping it tightly around the wound, as tight as her small hands could tie it. Then, with low, soothing words that seemed unnecessary (he was a man, he could take it, he found himself wanting to insist), she helped him upstairs to their room. 

With the first aid kit, she was able to slow the bleeding, but not stop it, and it was evident the deep gash would need more than a tight bandage.

“Superglue,” he said, finally, meeting her fearful but fixed gaze. 

“Superglue?” She asked, horrified.

“Done it before, cheaper than going to the emergency room,” he said, thinking back to all the different times and ways he and Merle had bandaged each other up, either after a fight with their dad, or each other, or some random stranger in a bar. 

“Where?” She asked, hunting fruitlessly in the first aid kit, bottles rattling around in the metal box. 

“Boiler room,” he said, sighing and leaning his head back against the wall. “I can go get it in a second, just need to rest for a bit.”

The loss of blood, combined with the intense physical labor and poor sleep of the last several weeks, was catching up with him, not to mention the extreme anxiety he had been trying to control ever since the day he thought Francie died. The small room was spinning, and his tongue felt too big for his mouth. 

Sensing his discomfort, Francie sorrowfully handed him a bottle of water.

“Let me go get it,” she said, quietly, and his eyes flicked open almost angrily.

“Fuck no,” he said, and he reached out with his uninjured hand and grabbed her leg, his fingers digging into the warm inner cove of her thigh, perhaps a bit roughly but he was too upset to care. “Told you, ain’t leaving my sight ever again.” 

She was silent for a moment, worry slowly unfurling across her face. 

“Daryl,” she began, a little uncertainly. “I’ve been patient with you, I know it’s my fault you feel this way, my fault you’re even hurt right now, but you can’t keep doing this. It’s not healthy.” 

He didn’t respond, but his insides clenched a little at her words. 

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate you looking after me, or that I don’t love your hands on me...but you have to be able to focus on your work and trust me to help you. I don’t want to just be a burden to you.” 

“You ain’t no burden,” he said, scoffing loudly at the foolishness of that remark. “And you AIN’T leaving my sight again.” 

“I’m not a little girl, Daryl!” said Francie, this time her voice sounding well and truly irritated, pulling her thigh out of the reach of his hands.

He rose unsteadily on his feet, trying to close the gap between them, putting one hand on the wall beside him while clutching the injured one to his chest. 

“Please,” he said, sounding bare and needful and not caring. “I need you...I need you to listen to me right now. Not forever, maybe. Not always. But for now. Yeah, for now, even if it makes you feel like a little girl, you have to do what I ask.”

She sighed, her hands pulling at her long dark braid anxiously. 

“But the others...the other women in your camp, they fought beside you. I saw. The one with short hair. And Denise’s wife...Tara. They weren’t little girls you had to protect.” 

He shrugged. “Yeah, but I wasn’t in love with them, was I?” 

Francie blushed a little, then bit her lower lip helplessly. 

“Come on,” he said, “You can help me down the stairs.” 

She nodded obediently, but he could see that there was something burning behind those sharp, sparkling green eyes. 

With some difficulty, she helped him navigate down the numerous flights of stairs to the toolbox which was on the floor in the boiler room. She struggled to guide his large, heavy as he sat down on the concrete floor, and then she twisted the lid off the superglue. 

“May I do it, please?” she asked, and he noted with some shame that she sounded meek, as if she doubted she would be allowed to help him. 

She applied a thin strip of glue and smeared it on the wound, then blew on it lightly. He hissed unhappily. She added another layer for good measure, then tightly wound up the bandage around the cut once again. 

He let out a small groan then, and rested his head on the wall behind him. 

“Is this how you are with all women?” she asked. 

He opened his eyes. “What women?” 

“I mean, before…in the old world…like, were you always so…domineering with them?” 

Her tone was curious, not accusatory, but he winced at the question all the same. 

“I didn’t have women before,” he said, finally. “Not like how you mean.” 

“Oh,” she said, and her brows raised. She curled up her legs under her and started to pick at the frayed hole in her jeans 

“And even if I did, it wouldn’t be the same,” he said. “Weren’t dead people walking around trying to eat us. Weren’t sadistic mad men trying to rape you and keep you captive.” 

She raised her brows a little higher. 

“Well, there were, sure, but…we had laws and cops and all that shit,” he said. “Now all you got is me.” 

She looked up and gave him a little grin, her eyes flashing as she took in his body from head to toe. 

“I like my odds,” she said, but he wasn’t in a teasing mood. 

“Girl, I just want to keep you, a-alive,” he said quietly, and he wavered a little on the last word, the memory of not being able to find her still too sharp in his mind. 

She said nothing, but looked at him intently. 

“Yeah, but…I want to do the same for you,” she said, so low it was almost a whisper. 

He held out his uninjured hand to her, motioning for her to crawl into his lap. She did so hesitantly, trying not to jostle his aching hand, which now was shooting rivers of red pain up his arm. 

“I’ll work on it, okay?” he promised, stroking her back and tugging on her hair, wrapping it around his hand. “Letting go…A little. Just a little.” 

She rubbed her cold little nose into the warmth of his neck. 

“I don’t mind you holding on,” she said, a little lust creeping into her voice. “But, I don’t want to hold you back.” 

He tilted up her chin so that he could look into her eyes. Her face was open and unguarded, and for the millionth time, he was taken aback by how fully and faithfully she gave herself to him. How she was able to hold out her heart to him with no restraint, no conditions, no judgment. 

“Ain’t never had someone that was all mine before,” he said in wonder, almost as if talking to himself. “Guess it’s something you gotta practice at.” 

She smiled. “You can practice on me all you want. Even if you have to ground me.” 

He snorted a little, then rubbed his finger on her plump bottom lip. “Nah, you need your wings, girl.”

She looked up at him loyally and then shrugged, cuddling close against him and pulling his embrace tighter. “Hmm, but I don’t mind my cage.” 

Outside, the winter wind howled. And booted steps moved ever closer. But inside, they continued unbroken, a key and a keeper, and both of them unsure who was who.


	36. a violent noise

Daryl stayed true to his word the next day, letting Francie go the kitchen for lunch while he cursed and banged at the generator in the mechanical room. She brought him a Cheez-Whiz sandwich and potato chips. 

“I made it with pickles, just like you like,” she teased, sinking down beside him on the floor and chewing on a baby carrot stick. 

He playfully gave her the finger. She had put pickles on his sandwich once, and his horrified reaction continued to be a source of fun for her. 

“You’ll eat freakin’ possum but not a pickle?” she had shrieked, laughing at the disgusted way he held it between his thumb and forefinger. 

But, now, his good humor was being tested by the generator. Despite days of working tirelessly at the electrical components, he was no closer to figuring the machine out. 

As always, she read his mood without him needing to say a word. 

“I wish I could help you,” she said, then picked up the operating manual which was laying on the ground between them. Thumbing through it, she read quietly while he ate his sandwich. 

And, as always, he ate with one hand, while wrapping the other around her leg, hooking his arm around her inner knee. She looked up at him and smiled gently, as if to offer him reassurance. 

But, then, her face grew intense with concentration. 

“Oh, Daryl!” she gasped. “Look, what it says here! Look!” 

She thrust the book towards him and pointed with her finger excitedly. 

He looked down at the page and watched the words spin. A flush grew over his cheeks. He nodded slowly. 

“Cool.” 

She looked baffled. “Cool? Don’t you see what it says? You need to move that red wire to the bottom of the battery.” 

He looked down at the pages in concentration, removing his arm from her knee. 

“No, here!” she said, pointing to the page with fingers that were trembling with adrenaline. 

He followed her fingers, nodding as a frown deepened on his face. He wished he had never brought the book out in the first place. It had been tucked in a 3-ring binder beside other operating manuals and he had looked at the pictures for good measure, but he had not anticipated this outcome. 

Francie looked at him in confusion, and he could sense her eyes tracing his face while he doggedly stared at the pages as if reading them. 

Her fingers suddenly stroked his back. 

“I should read it out loud, while you work,” she said, casually. “That would make the most sense. So, you can use your hands, right?” 

He felt his face burn hot with shame. He moved away from her and sank on his knees before the toolbox, pretending to look for something. No one spoke for a moment. 

“I know how to read,” he said defensively, and she said “No, I know,” before the sentence even finished coming out of his mouth. 

“I do,” he said, insistently. “I know how to read, Francie.” 

He very rarely used her first name. He just wanted to be sure she heard him, realized he wasn’t a complete idiot. His stomach hurt for some stupid reason. He felt like he was back in fourth grade again, the teacher making him read out loud in class just to humiliate him, just to teach him to ‘try harder.’ 

“The letters just get backwards?” she asked, quietly, easily. 

He looked up and nodded quickly, a feeling of relief coming over him, the relief that comes when you are seen and named and heard. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. “They jump around. Don’t stay still on me.” 

“You’re dyslexic,” she said, as simply and naturally as she might say, ‘you have blue eyes.’ 

He looked down at his hands. “That’s a ten-dollar word for dumb.” 

“What awful person told you that?” she asked, her voice sharp with anger. 

He smiled, shaking his head a little. “Merle.” 

She gasped. “And I was gonna name my first baby after that little asshole!” 

He laughed, and felt his stomach unfurl.

“You’re not dumb, Daryl,” she said, sadly, but with force. “Lots of really smart people have dyslexia. Like some people say Leonardo da Vinci or even Albert Einstein had dyslexia.” 

He shook his head. “I thought if you found out, you would…I don’t know…you’re a teacher, I know you’re really smart. I didn’t want you think I was dumb.” 

She picked up the operating manual and looked at it. “I can read these words, but they don’t really mean anything to me. You’re the one who knows how to use the tools and actually do it. So, we’re both smart. Just in different ways.” 

He looked doubtfully at her. “No one ever said I was smart before.” 

“Well, you knew some really dumb people, then.” 

He grinned at her. 

“Oh my god!” she said, her hand flying to her mouth. “That’s why you made Aaron read Simon’s letter aloud! I wondered why you didn’t read it yourself.”

He grunted in acknowledgment. 

“All this time you’ve been working so hard and I should have been helping you,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. 

“Don’t do that,” he said sharply. 

She cocked her head in confusion.

“Don’t pity me. Don’t baby me.” 

She nodded quickly, but he interrupted. 

“You have that look in your eye now.” 

“What look?” she asked. 

He opened his mouth, then shook his head and gave up. 

“Just don’t…don’t act different to me now,” he said finally, thickly as he stared down at the ground. “That would be worse than you thinking I was dumb, you treating me like some kind of special-ed case.” 

“I wouldn’t, Daryl,” she said, gently. “I won’t.” 

He acquiesced then, and shrank back down on the floor next to her, his arm looping back around her leg. 

“Okay, read it out loud, then,” he said. “But first…take your top off.”

“Daryl!” she shrieked, hiding her head in her hands and laughing. 

“What? I definitely think that would help me learn better,” he said, purposely exaggerating his drawl. 

She laughed and nuzzled into his shoulder. 

“I love you, Daryl.” 

He bent down and laid his cheek on top of her head. “Love you, babygirl.” 

For a moment, neither spoke, his hands playing along the inside of her leg.

“Okay,” she said, clearing her throat and picking up the manual. “I’m going to start here. So stop distracting me. Let’s get serious.” 

“Yes, Miss Frankie.” 

She giggled and pushed pretend-glasses up the bridge of her nose. 

It only took an hour-and-a-half to fix the broken generator. When electric light flooded the room, Francie’s mouth dropped open. Daryl cried out, “Oh hell yeah!” throwing the wrench down on the ground triumphantly. 

The hotel glowed with light. 

“The microwave!” said Francie. “We can microwave now!’

“We can turn on the electric fireplaces,” said Daryl. “We can use the dryers for our clothes.” 

“Hair dryers!” screamed Francie, and they both started laughing. 

That night, they ate microwave popcorn and warm (warm!) chicken noodle soup in front of the electric fireplace in the hotel library. They opened a bottle of champagne and listened to music on the C.D. player. Francie danced drunkenly to the XX while Daryl serenely watched her from the couch. He felt like the cat who had got the cream. 

She spun and spun before the gauzy curtains, the night inky-black outside, but warm as gold inside. 

“I don't have to leave anymore, what I have is right here,” she sang, her voice untrained but breathy and full of power. “I am yours now, so now I don't ever have to leave, I've been found out, so now I’ll never explore.” 

He didn’t know the song, but he liked the words on her lips. She stumbled and nearly spun on the couch, laughing mirthfully at her drunken state. Sighing, she sank down on top of him, straddling him and sighing happily.

He grabbed her roughly from behind the neck and pulled her down for a long, exploring kiss, using one hand to hold her neck and the other to explore underneath her shirt.

He raised his brows in surprise when he discovered she wasn’t wearing a bra. She gasped aloud as he gripped her bare tit in his hands, the pink nub hardening instantly in his hand. 

“Need to taste you, okay?” he asked, and she nodded breathlessly as he pushed her sweater up over her breasts.

Gazing up at her worshipfully, he massaged her tits hungrily, running his rough callused hands over the smooth, soft expanse of her perfect skin. 

“Daryl, Daryl,” she said. He ignored her and sat up on the backs of his forearms, then tightly gripped one tit in his hand and sucked the nipple of the other into his mouth. He groaned in pleasure, tightening his grip and barely resisting the urge to bite down on the sweet flesh. 

“Daryl!” she said again, and this time she sounded very distressed.

He looked up horrified, and instantly released her breast. “I’m sorry, girl—I got carried away—”

“No, no! There’s someone outside! I see lights moving towards us!”

Daryl sat up and pushed her off him. He looked to where she was pointing outside the window above the couch. 

Lights. Unmistakable. Flashlights. In the darkness. Moving towards the hotel. 

“Daryl,” said Francie, sounding for all the world like a little girl. “Daryl.” 

He pulled her into his chest, staring into the darkness while he stroked her naked back. 

“It’s gonna be okay, babygirl. I’m gonna fix it,” he said, with a confidence he did not feel at all. 

And the lights kept moving closer. 

"But every beat is a violent noise, try as I might, with every beat comes a violent noise," sang the C.D. player. But this time Francie did not sing along.


	37. polaroids

Upon seeing the moving flashlights (at least 3 of them, he counted), Daryl’s plan was to grab a bag and rush Francie out the employee exit. Leaving the warm hotel for the dark, cold night was the last thing he wanted to do, but if they ran now, before Negan and his men swarmed the hotel, they might have a chance. Once they finally surmounted the barricade, the Saviors would be so busy searching all of the rooms they wouldn’t realize the pair were long gone. 

But something stilled him. Sitting with a half-nude, trembling Francie in his lap, he watched as the lights moved closer…then shut off entirely. Francie gasped. The lights came back on, then off, then on. They looked at each other. He felt every inch of her skin alight with goosebumps. 

The pattern repeated itself quickly. On, off, on, off, on, off. 

Then a pause. 

On, off, on off, on, off, on, off. But slower this time, like the first time. 

Then faster. 

“Morse code?” Francie breathed, shaking her head in disbelief. 

“Fuck,” he said, glad he wasn’t the only one thinking it. “Could be a trick.”

“Maybe it’s other survivors,” she said doubtfully. “Trying to wave a white flag. Seeing if they can come in.” 

He stared into the darkness. 

“Nah,” he said. “It’s someone we know. Don’t think anyone else would approach a place like this at night, not knowing who could be inside. Nah, they know we’re in here, and they ain’t scared…that means they’re either the Saviors…or someone from Alexandria.” 

He daren’t let himself hope that it could be someone from his family rather than Negan and his men, but as soon as he thought it, he realized how wonderful and awful that would be at the same time. Wonderful because he suddenly felt intensely homesick for the group he had spent nearly every day with since this new world began, and awful because if they were here, and at this time of night…it meant something went very, very wrong at home. 

He gently lifted Francie off him, but not before pulling her sweater down and smoothing her hair with his palms.

“I’m gonna keep ya safe, girl,” he said, and while he meant it, while he would gladly lay down his life for her, pay whatever cost was required of him, it did nothing to quell the anxiety raging inside of him. 

“I know, Daryl,” she said, loyally, looking at him with open, trusting eyes, and he wondered what he did to earn that level of faith. 

As it turned out, neither his anxiety nor her faith were needed. 

Standing by the window at the end of the first floor hallway, keeping her pushed firmly behind him, Daryl quirked the curtains in his fingers, waiting for the advancing group to walk into the lighted shadow of the hotel. 

Even before they made it into the dim orb of light, Daryl’s shoulders sagged with relief. He knew that gait, would know it anywhere. It was his brother. Not his blood, but his brother all the same. 

“It’s Rick,” he said, grinning ear to ear as Francie looked questioningly up at him. 

Conflicted emotions warred on her face. 

“Who else?” she asked finally. 

He looked out. “He’s got his kids with him. Carl’s holding Judith. And it looks like Sasha…Sasha and that…one guy, what’s his name? Al--Alden.” 

“Rick has kids?” she asked, and he looked down at her in surprise. 

He could have sworn her told her that already, but he had noticed that even though she was much clearer-headed than she ever had been before, her short-term memory was still a bit iffy. 

She blushed a little. “No, I remember,” she said, biting her lower lip. 

He knew she was lying. He shook his head and lifted his hand, combing his fingers through her hair, starting near her temple and then clenching his fingers into a gentle fist behind her head. It was a habit of his, whenever he felt her slipping somewhere out of his reach, going into that place in her mind. Gripping onto her like that, tugging on her hair just a little, forcing her face up to his, he gave her a comforting kiss on the forehead. 

“It don’t matter, girl,” he said, “They’re here now. And you can meet ‘em yourself. Once you hear Judith crying cause she missed a nap, you won’t forget her anytime soon.” 

She smiled at him gratefully and leaned into his grasp. 

“Let’s go let them in,” he said. 

“Can’t I wait here?” 

“The rules ain’t changed just cause there’s new people here,” he said firmly, but not unkindly. “Can’t be alone at night, we agreed ta that.” 

She lifted her brows but nodded. 

“H--how do I look?” She asked as she followed him down the hallway, 

He looked back at her and quirked an eyebrow, gazing up and down at her hungrily. “The hell you mean? Perfect, the fuck you think?” 

She shook her head, then her steps paused as they were about to head down the narrow hallway. 

He looked back at her, wondering why she didn’t seem more eager to see friendly faces…until he realized, they weren’t friendly faces to her. He wasn’t even sure she would remember Rick.

“Ya nervous?” he asked, slowly his steps and letting his hand fall from the door handle. 

She kept her eyes down at the ground. 

“They’re good people,” he said, recalling when he first said that to her weeks ago. 

And, just like back then, doubt clouded her pretty green eyes when she looked up at him. 

“I know,” she said, finally. “But…what if they don’t like me?” 

He resisted the urge to smile at the sight of her standing there, tugging on the hem of her sweater and nervously shifting from foot to foot. It might have been funny to him, the idea of someone not liking her, let alone Carl and Judith who he knew would worship her, but he could tell she was deadly serious. 

“I don’t know how…to be normal anymore,” she said finally. 

“You’re normal to me, baby girl,” he said and reached out his arms for her, pulling her into his grasp and clutching her tight to his chest. He took a few deep breaths. She matched her breathing to his, and whether from the deep breaths or the physical contact, he felt her body slowly untense. 

She looked up at him. “Yeah but maybe you’re not normal, either,” she teased a little. He shook his head and tickled at her waist, earning him a giggle and a swat on the hand. 

“C’mon,” he said, relieved to see she was smiling, playful self again. 

But, neither were smiling when they let Rick in and saw the bloodied state of his face and knuckles. After embracing each other, Daryl’s eyes searched Rick for a sign, a smile, something to hold onto, but he just gave him a deep nod. 

Carl’s face was somber and looked older than his 15 years, and even Judith somehow looked world-weary. 

As for Sasha, she gave him a fist bump and pointed to the hotel behind him. “Nice little place ya got here.” 

Daryl snorted. 

“Room for a few more?” Alden asked. 

“Course,” he said. At that moment, Francie stepped further out of the doorway and into the group’s line of sight. 

Daryl was surprised to hear a gasp coming from Sasha. He glanced over and saw that she looked stunned and Rick was staring at her in disbelief. 

“What?” he asked, confused. “You remember Francie?”

“Haven’t ever had the pleasure, said Alden, giving her a nervous half-wave. “I’m Alden.” 

"Jesus,” said Sasha, ignoring this introduction. “Last time I saw her, she was half-starved and covered in brusies and cuts. Now she looks…fucking…good.” 

Carl snorted at that remark. Daryl turned and looked at Francie. He guessed her physical change was marked, but it happened it so slowly he barely noticed it, especially with all he had on his mind. Most of her physical injuries had completely healed, and she had put on a good 15 pounds over the last couple of weeks, filling out her curves and giving her face a healthy glow. Her eyes were bright and clear, and her hair was shining in long, bouncy waves. Her affinity for all the makeup and hair products she found in the hotel only enhanced her natural beauty, and she looked like she stepped off a cover of a magazine rather than the set of a horror movie as she had back in Alexandria. 

He felt a flush of pride at her standing there, a questioning look on her face as she tried to make sense of this line of conversation, not only because he was proud she was his, but he was proud she was thriving…and he knew her flourishing was thanks in some small part to him, which he had to admit fed his masculine ego. 

“You look good, Francie,” Rick said, huskily and Daryl’s pride switched to possessiveness instantly. 

“Damn, stop ogling her and get inside,” said Daryl gruffly, sparing a smile for Judith as she passed by him in Carl’s arms and a “Hey, man” for Carl. 

“Where’s Michonne?” Daryl asked pointedly as he led the group to the warm library where the fire was still burning. 

Rick sagged gratefully on the couch. 

“Don’t, Daryl,” asked Francie, taking Daryl by surprise. 

“First, food and something to drink,” she said, her voice gentler now. “The little one looks exhausted.” 

“Judith,” said Carl, looking at Francie with an awed expression. “Her name’s Judith.” 

“Would she like some soup or crackers?” Francie asked, laying a soft hand on Judith’s back. “Hmm, Judith? You hungry?” 

“I think she might just need sleep,” said Carl. “Her bedtime was hours ago.” 

“Let’s make her a bed,” she said, leading him out of the room. “I know the perfect place. Come on, Judith. I think you and your stuffie are going to like this soft bed.” 

Daryl made a move to follow them, but Rick raised his hand. “Gotta talk, man.” 

Daryl frowned. “Francie,” he said warningly. “What room are you taking them to?” 

“The one down the hall from ours. Room eleven,” she said, “It has a little daybed for Judith. And two doubles for Rick and Carl. The sheets are clean, don’t worry.” 

Francie directed this last statement to Rick, as if dirty sheets might be something he would worry about. Daryl clucked his tongue. “I’ll go with you.” 

“I can do it,” she insisted. 

“Ain’t the rule,” he said. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sasha and Alden look at each other. 

“Keep her on a tight leash, dontcha?” asked Alden. 

“It’s okay,” said Francie, suddenly crossing the room to grab Daryl by the wrist. “I need his help, that’s why.” 

Loyal beyond reason, as always, he thought, but he had to admit he felt conflicted. He could feel the judgment coming from the others in the room, and Rick was staring at him like he had three heads. 

“Daryl takes really good care of me,” she said, defensively, as if she was feeling their judgment of him as well. 

“I’ll go with them, too? Is that cool?” asked Sasha to Daryl, a little uncertainly, as if she wasn’t sure what to make of this situation. “I want to see this place. Come on, Al. Let Rick and Daryl have their mano y mano.” 

Alden nodded and followed, easing his hands in pockets and adopting a faux-casual demeanor as he oozed past Daryl. 

Daryl watched Francie as she confidently chatted away with Carl and explained the rooming situation. He should have been relieved, happy even, to see her naturally taking a leadership role and being at ease around his family, but he felt his stomach clench as she left the room. He knew he wouldn’t feel relaxed again until she was back in his sight. 

Rick gave him a knowing glance, and grabbed a handful of microwave popcorn. 

“You got it bad, man,” he said, but his voice wasn’t mirthful. 

“Who’s dead?” Daryl asked flatly. He knew something catastrophic had to have occurred for Rick to bring his kids, especially Judith, out in the wilderness like this. 

“Had to get the kids out of th--,” Rick said. 

“Who’s dead?” Daryl interrupted, again in a monotone. To anyone who didn’t know Daryl, they might assume he didn’t care, but Rick knew him well enough to know that his flat, emotionless voice was a by-product of the intense emotional storm inside of him. 

“Eric,” he answered, and Daryl pointed his chin to the ceiling in a groan as he slid down the wall onto the floor. Aaron, he thought. Eric was his everything. 

“Was it…quick?” Daryl asked, afraid to know the answer but needing to hear it all the same.

“Lucille.” 

Daryl recoiled as if he had been punched in the gut and he gave an anguished howl. He pounded his fists against his thighs. 

“Got a letter for her,” said Rick, finally, after Daryl’s initial outburst flamed, his fists clenched against his face. 

Leaning back on the couch so he could stuff his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans, Rick tossed it on the floor next to him. “Simon.” 

Daryl put his head in his hands. All he could see was Eric being…destroyed by Negan’s bat, and Aaron, being destroyed in an even more inhuman way, as he watched it happen, watched his love being ripped to a faceless shred by Lucille. 

“There’s pictures in it,” Rick said. 

Daryl said nothing. 

“What’s happening?” asked Francie, running quickly into the room and sliding on the carpet as she flung herself down to Daryl. “I heard you cry out. What happened?”

He refused to meet her gaze, keeping his face hidden in his fists. Guilt and rage left him trembling, and he had the urge to be sick. He got up and ran to the bathroom. 

When he came out, Francie was holding the letter, barely grasping it between her shaking fingers. Her face was blank, and she had a handful of Polaroids in her hand. Upon hearing his footfall, she looked up at Daryl, and for a moment, he had the oddest feeling that she was no longer Francie anymore, not the same Francie she had been just five minutes prior. 

She took her gaze from Daryl and looked at Rick. “Take me to Simon,” she said, smoothly and without a hint of fear.


	38. the cold

Though he barely felt the cold, Daryl knew it must have been below freezing from the way his fingers struggled numbly to light his cigarette. Normally he tried to ration his smokes, but he had blazed through five, maybe six, in a row since coming up on the roof after his fight with Rick. 

Remembering the final blow Rick had delivered, Daryl tentatively ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth. He still tasted blood, but from the looks of his stained t-shirt, Daryl must have gotten some good blows in himself, because all of this blood couldn’t have been from his busted lip alone. 

The fight would have continued on, despite Carl’s pleas and Alden’s ineffective attempts at pulling them apart, but when Francie inadvertently got slammed into the coffee table as she tried to break up the scuffle, both sides waved a white flag. 

From the way she cried out and gasped, clutching at her lower back, Daryl knew the edge of the table had got her good, not to mention the sheer force of being thrown across the room by two men who were more than twice her size. 

But, despite that, he didn’t stick around. Why would he? She had made up her mind. 

She had her reasons. Seven of them. Seven full-color reasons. 

Reason One: Eric’s head, or what used to be Eric’s head, splattered across Rick’s front yard. 

Reason Two: Denise half-naked and bleeding on the floor inside one of Negan’s cells. 

Reason Three: Tara, mouth open in what must have been an ear-splitting roar, being held in place by Negan’s men. 

Reason Four: Aaron staring blankly, all color and emotion robbed from his face. 

Reason Five: A picture of Daryl from the first day Negan took him to the cells. 

Reason Six: A picture of Daryl after 2 weeks of torture and beatings and dog food. 

Reason Seven: An empty cell with a sweatshirt labeled “A.” 

Empty because it was being saved for him. The warning was not lost on him. 

Nor was Denise’s hell, Aaron’s hell, Tara’s hell lost on him. But while he bled for them, he could not allow himself to feel any sympathy for Francie right now. She had to be cold-hearted to do this to him, he figured. How else could she ever do this? 

Simple and to the point, Rick had read Simon’s missive aloud while Francie sat beside him, purposely not looking at Daryl: 

Kitten—

You’re being so naughty. Why do you want to hurt me?

I have a proposition for you. I’m not a bad man, Kitten. I want to do the right thing by you. 

Come stay with me for 2 weeks, 14 days, 14 nights. 

I will be a perfect gentleman. Of course, you will have to share my bed (so I know you won’t sneak off on me again), but no funny business, unless of course, you so   
desire. And perhaps, Kitten, you may desire? 

2 weeks in the Sanctuary, and if you want to leave at the end of it, you can. 

Do this small thing, Kitten, and I will let your friend go immediately. She wants to come home so bad, it’s breaking my damn heart. 

And you have my word, my solemn word as a man, and a Savior, and as a former Eagle Scout, that I won’t chase you any longer. I do have my pride. You will be safe. 

Your new friends will be safe. Even the junkyard dog who’s been following you around. 

But, maybe, once you taste the filet mignon, you won’t want the Spam anymore. 

XO Daddy

After Rick read the later, Daryl had instantly started screaming and throwing things. He was like a newly caged lion raging in horror and disbelief at the bars around him. 

Raging because he knew, knew even if Francie’s expression was not set in stone, that he was never going to be able to keep her from the Sanctuary, from Simon, now. If his words weren’t convincing enough, the pictures spoke 1,000 words. 1,000 monstrous, apocalyptic words, words that may never, ever stop repeating in the viewer’s brain. 

“It’s two weeks, Dar,” Rick finally said, after Daryl had shattered nearly half the library while Francie sat huddled on the couch with her hands over her ears and her face in her lap. 

When Daryl didn’t respond, Rick continued, “I mean, unless you don’t trust her.” 

Daryl never understood the expression ‘saw red’ so well as he did in that moment. 

There was no thinking, only action. He full-body tackled Rick to the floor and tried to kill him. He did. He really did. In that moment, he wanted Rick dead for even daring to present this plan as something that was not a big deal, a minor blip in Francie’s existence, for even daring to imply that Daryl was resisting the idea because he was just being a jealous boyfriend. 

Of course, he was a jealous boyfriend. Hell, he wanted to lay Rick out just for ogling at her when he first laid eyes on her outside, but that wasn’t the reason he wouldn’t send her to the Sanctuary. He didn’t want to send her because he didn’t know if she would ever come back and even more importantly than that, most importantly of all, if she did come back, what state her mind and body would be in. Hell, even if she didn’t come back, that’s all he would be thinking of. Was she having nightmares, was she eating, was she quoting poetry into space or making jokes and making sense, was she helpless in a panic attack, was she dancing, was she spinning, was she being held down, was the room spinning, was she being touched in places she didn’t want, was she being hurt, was she being hurt, was she being hurt—

Jealous? 

Not jealous. Dead. Without her. Without being able to take care of her. Without being able to protect her. He may as well be dead. Death would be a comfort, death would be a friend. 

So yeah, maybe he was jealous. Jealous of anyone smart enough to die before this became the world, smart enough to die before the world lost all sense of honor and dignity and security and humanity.

But maybe love always came with this choice. Eventually. To love and suffer, or to be numb and escape pain. 

Let me be numb, then, Daryl thought. 

The cold wind spoke the truth.


	39. xo daddy

The next morning should have been somber, silent, morose.

But, it didn’t take long for Carl and Sasha to start shrieking in excitement over the massive industrial kitchen and the pantry which contained stocked shelves so high they required a rolling ladder to reach. For her part, Judith was cooing and bubbling with excitement at all the new rooms and toys for her to explore. After a short lifetime of always being carried and contained in small, designated safe zones, she was thrilled to go wild down the hallway, Carl pushing her on a hotel luggage cart while she screamed with pleasure. 

Rick couldn’t hide the fact that he was pleased to see his kids happy and well-fed. Little moments like this never went without gratitude anymore. So, although Daryl noticed him struggling to keep a serious expression, he couldn’t hide his true feelings of momentary contentment. 

“What about Denise?” Daryl wanted to throw up in their faces, in Sasha’s face as she hungrily attacked the chocolate-chip pancakes and maple syrup with equal pleasure, in Rick’s face as he drank real brewed coffee and grinned at Judith. 

But he knew such a contemptuous question would only make him a hypocrite as well. Hadn’t he happily laid in bed with Francie and ignored the world outside? Hadn’t he forced Negan and his certain sadistic acts out of his mind, deciding just to care for Francie and only focus on what he could control? So, now, seeing his family do the same should not anger him. Should not. But did. 

As for Francie, she was playing babysitter for Judith and helping everyone locate pots and pans and ingredients, behaving calmly and detached, as if this was a neighborhood brunch party rather than a last meal. 

Only Alden seemed at all distraught, which heightened Daryl’s wire-thin emotions. He knew Alden was a former member of the Saviors, that he knew Negan and Simon better than anyone in this group. The fact that he was quiet and barely able to eat a bite of his breakfast was a cause for great concern. 

As if sensing this line of thought, Alden caught Daryl’s piercing gaze and raised his brows, then tilted his head to the doorway. Daryl gave a short nod. 

They left the room wordlessly, and although the light chatter continued on without a break, Daryl could feel everyone’s eyes on them as they exited, as though they were holding their collective breath and bracing for another fight. 

But Daryl didn’t want to kick Alden’s ass. He had no fight in him this morning. He felt drained and destroyed and impotent. 

“Read it?” asked Daryl, as always opting to use as little words as possible. 

Alden tucked his head in assent. Daryl knew Alden to be one of those guys who never shut up, so he sensed this difference, sensed Alden matching his energy to his, as if he was frightened of him.

“Trust him?” 

Alden snorted. He moved towards the window, squinting in the newborn sunlight. 

Daryl could sense his wheels spinning, could feel Alden searching for the right words. It irritated the shit out of him. Middle of the end of the world and he’s fucking concerned with tact, thought Daryl irritably. 

“Look,” said Alden, grimacing a little at the intensity of Daryl’s stare. “I’ve know about her for a while.” 

“Her? Her? You mean Francie? You mean my girl?” 

He didn’t mean to spit out the words with such venom, but he did. 

Alden nodded slowly, as if he was starting to think this might be a losing battle. 

“Damn it, man, you think we got fucking time? We ain’t got fucking time! Speak! You traitorous piece of shit,” hissed Daryl, thinking that the only thing worse than a Savior might be an ex-Savior. 

“Hey,” said Alden, putting his hands up. “Chill. I’ll talk, okay? Tell you what I know. But, fuck, not in the mood for a fight, especially not with you. I saw what you did to Rick. Besides, I’m all about peace and harmony these days.” 

“Fucking talk.” 

So Alden began, words spilling out on top of each other, his voice only shaking a bit. 

“Simon’s beeeennnn about that girl. About that—Francie, right? He always called her, his kitten, right? Fuck, man. We thought it was weird, but hell, we loved Simon. We all did. He was funny and laid-back, and if you fucked up, he wouldn’t rat on you. He would help fix it. He was a hardass, and a tough leader, but he could be normal too, right? Not like Negan. Like not…I mean, Negan, he could iron a guy’s face and go eat his scrambled eggs without a second thought. Simon was a bit…more human.”

Daryl gave Alden a withering look. 

“We all knew he had a thing for that girl. We talked, right? We all knew he went down the cells, brought her food. Hell, most of us had a thing for her. She was only at the Sanctuary a short time, but she made an impression. We all were pissed when Negan put her down there. She was sweet…soft…sensitive. She didn’t belong there.” 

Daryl kept his eyes on Alden, leaving his back against the doorframe and crossing his bulky arms across his chest. 

“So yeah, we knew, we talked. Even once I was put out in the Satellite outpost, I would hear gossip over the radio and stuff. People like Fat Joey can’t keep secrets, man.” 

“How long did he have her down there?” asked Daryl, realizing that Alden might have a more coherent understanding of Francie’s captivity then she did. 

“Hell,” said Alden. “I dunno. Time just…gets away from—”

Daryl took a few menacing steps forward. 

“Maybe eight?” sputtered Alden quickly. “I don’t know exactly.” 

“Eight weeks?” demanded Daryl, his belly clenching at the thought of Francie in that cell for 2 months. 

“Months.” 

Daryl’s eyes closed. Eight months. Eight fucking months. No wonder her mind had been so damaged. Eight months in that cell alone, with that song playing, and no food and no comfort and no safety and those men coming in….

Alden’s worried voice broke into his consciousness. “You need to sit down?” 

“She said some man came in and tried to rape her. She said Simon killed him.” 

“Sure,” said Alden. “See what I mean? Simon could be a good guy. Patrick was an utter piece of shit. Always had been. Always trying to get the girls drunk and make passes, that kind of thing. Wait until they were good and drunk before making his move. So yeah, I wasn’t surprised when I heard Simon had found him trying to touch her. Wasn’t surprised when he killed him either. Rape isn’t allowed, right?”

Alden sounded almost boastful for a minute, as if he was talking up the Saviors and this was a big selling point.

“Yeah, dumbass. That’s kind of a normal expectation. Ya ain’t special for it.” 

Alden shrugged and nodded, cheeks reddening. “No, I know…I know. Just meant…if Simon wanted to hurt her, he could have already? A million times over. And he didn’t. He cares about her. He protected her.” 

“He left her in a damn cell for 8 fucking months, are you fucking demented, motherfucker?” Daryl snapped, his voice raising to a near-shout. 

“That was Negan,” said Alden. “Negan’s rules trump all.”

“But now, now Negan is going to be good to her? Treat her like a princess?” 

Alden shook his head a little. “Look, right now, Negan has to save face. The best way to do that is by welcoming her in, acting like he doesn’t consider her a threat, like she’s not important enough to cause a fight over.”

“He already did. And he lost.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Alden. “See, I’ve been thinking about this all morning. He doesn’t want the news that you got the upper hand—AGAIN—getting into the Sanctuary, definitely not to the workers. He’d rather welcome her in the front gate, act like a magnanimous King giving her a safe place. Like he’s decided to give her an olive branch for the sake of decency and the loyalty of his top man. That would earn him so many points from his people, especially because a lot of them still remember Francie fondly.” 

Daryl shook his head in disbelief. “You people are sick, you know that right?” 

“Hey, man,” said Alden, defensively. “I’m not with them anymore. But even the ones that are there…it’s not a choice, right? They’re making do, taking care of their family however they can. That’s survival now.” 

“So you want me to send Francie in there, as some kind of peace offering to appease that sadistic piece of shit?” 

Alden stared at him wordlessly. 

There was nothing left to say.


	40. monsters and dolls

For the first time since fighting with Rick in the library, Daryl found himself alone with Francie. He had conscientiously avoided being anywhere near her, choosing to finally pass out in the hotel lobby for a few broken hours of sleep rather than sharing a bed with her. He realized that it was the first time since meeting her that they had ever spent a night apart. He wondered if this was why his sleep was so restless and filled with nightmares, but considering their current situation, no one could blame him for not sleeping well. Still, he dreamed of water, rocking waves, and an empty ship, battered in a freezing, lightless storm. When he woke up, his heart was racing as fast as if he just sprinted a mile. 

Even when he was in a room with her, such as at breakfast in the kitchen, he would not meet her eyes. Again, he struggled uncomfortably with the oddity of this.  
Usually, he always had his gaze fixed on her, following her even out of his peripheral vision without even consciously planning to. It was as though he was a planet in her orbit, involuntarily following her movement, and recording every slight motion and mannerism, and responding to it in turn.

But it was stranger still not to have his hands on her. He realized that there was hardly a moment when he was not caressing her, stroking her hair, grasping her thigh, holding on to her wrist or the back of her neck or gripping her long hair around his fingers. Now his hands were empty, fidgety, and he found himself smoking incessantly, cracking his knuckles, pacing the floor, biting his thumbnail to the quick. 

If Francie noticed his lack of physical contact or his refusal to even look at her, she didn’t complain. In fact, she seemed to have retreated into herself entirely. She was painfully polite to the others and more than sweet to Judith and Carl, making sure they had enough to eat and bringing them water for a warm bath and supplying them with clean clothes and towels. 

But, underneath, Daryl felt something was missing. Her light was missing. Francie, the Francie he knew, loved, cherished and protected was gone, and in her place was a well-mannered and unimpeachable stranger, a stranger who exhibited no emotion whatsoever. 

He thought of icy waves. 

Daryl wasn’t exactly sure why he finally sought her out. She was up in their room, packing her things and getting ready to leave for the Sanctuary. Rick had his SVU a mile or two down the hill, as they had parked a distance away and walked on foot in case anyone was following them. It was agreed (by them, not by Daryl, never by Daryl), that Rick would drive Francie to the Sanctuary along with Alden for added protection and support. Sasha would stay with Carl and Judith at the hotel and wait for Rick and Alden to return, hopefully with Denise in tow. 

No one mentioned Daryl in this planning. No one dared to. 

Francie fairly jumped into the air from surprise when Daryl entered their room. She was wearing a dark purple lace bodysuit with high-waisted jeans. Her hair was in long, loose waves down her back and she wore several necklaces which tumbled down temptingly into her cleavage. Her makeup was heavier than Daryl had ever seen her wear it—smoky eyes and big, dark lashes with a swipe of mauve lipstick highlighting her plump lips. 

She even smelled different. Sweeter, more potent, a floral edge rather than the soft, spicy scents she preferred. 

He stared at her, combating feelings of deep arousal and anger. 

“Sorry,” she breathed, taking in the way he was looking at her appearance. “I always wear a lot of makeup when I’m nervous.” 

She then pulled a soft, oversized sweater over the lace bodysuit. Without intending to, Daryl found himself unconsciously reaching out and pulling her dark hair from out of the sweater, laying it against her back. 

“Why you nervous?” he asked, feeling bitter in spite of his finer feelings for her. “Simon will take good care of you.” 

She recoiled as if he had struck her. 

Then her face went blank and expressionless. She gave him a shrug. She walked over to the bed where a suitcase was laying open. It was filled with clothing, toiletries, makeup, even her half-filled journal and pen that Daryl had given her weeks prior. 

“Looks like you plan to stay a while,” he said flatly, again finding himself trying to pick a fight. 

She zipped up the Louis Vuitton bag. “Two weeks.” 

“If ya lucky,” said Daryl, barely restrained rage making his voice deeper than usual. 

A stiletto went whizzing past his ear. Daryl jumped in surprise. Francie stood shaking in front of him. 

“Did you just throw a fucking shoe at me?” 

“Yeah,” she snapped, forcing her way past him as she struggled to carry her luggage. “And if you don’t move your ass, I’m going to throw another.” 

He indignantly grabbed her small bicep in his hand as she walked by, stopping her movements.

“Listen, little girl, you don’t want this—

“Where were you last night?” She interrupted. 

Daryl felt stunned. She really was worried where he was last night, when she was planning to spend the next 14 nights in bed with another man? 

“In the fuckin’ lobby.” 

She raised her eyebrows, then shook her head. “Cool.” 

She tried to squirm out of his hold, but she was no match for his strength, even holding her as lightly and carefully as he was. 

“Cool?” 

“Fuck you, Daryl.” 

He gripped her arm tighter and yanked her closer to him, their chests colliding as he lifted her nearly off the ground to face him. 

“I am fucked, baby. And so are you. Don’t you get it, don’t you see? You’re packing a fucking bag like you’re headed to a weekend in Fort Lauderdale, like you’re—” 

She dropped the suitcase on his foot. 

“Ow,” he hissed, and she took the opportunity to wriggle free from his grasp, only to find herself being pulled backwards into his arms, her back against his chest as he locked his huge arms around her. 

She was crying now, quietly, but in earnest. 

“You’re hurting me,” she said, and shamefaced he started to release his grasp, but she dug her fingernails into his forearms to stop him. “No, I don’t mean that kind of hurt.” 

He found himself sobbing aloud, collapsing his weight onto her small frame as she stood there and bore his crying body on her back, his tears wetting her hair and falling down her smooth neck. 

“It’s going to be okay, baby,” she whispered, caressing his arms, her voice sounding panicked as his cries only continued. “Please, baby. Please don’t do this to yourself. Please don’t. It’s going to be okay.” 

“It ain’t gonna be okay!” snapped Daryl releasing her now and spinning on his heels, then helplessly lashing out and punching the hotel room wall next to him. The second time this week, he briefly realized, but he didn’t care. He was happy to see his old demons again, to find that he wasn’t so far removed from that angry, ferocious redneck, to find that he hadn’t been completely neutered by falling in love with Francie. Because he needed this rage. This power. This purpose. It was all he had left now. 

“What else can I do?” she whispered, reaching out and gripping his bloodied hand, stopping him from unleashing another punch. “What else can I do? Denise saved my life, Daryl. He’s got her…her in that…place. That horrible place. I could never live knowing that someone I cared about was down there, hurting the way I did…Daryl, he’s going to put you down there next. Do you know what that would do to me? Do you know what that would do?” 

“Yeah,” he choked out bitterly. “You’re looking at it.”

She looked to the ceiling and let out a slow exhale. 

“But it’s only for 2 weeks,” she cajoled. “And then I’ll be back with you. Forever.” 

“You won’t be back,” he said, feeling the sobs coming again, sinking to the floor and letting his head fall into his lap. “And if you do, you won’t be the same, Francie. He’s going to ruin you.” 

She had been about to sit on the floor to join him, but as he kept talking, her body froze mid-motion. 

“Meaning what?” she asked. “Like he’s going to fuck me? Like I’ll be a used slut?” 

He raised his brows in confusion. “Huh? No.”

“Yeah, no. No. I see now. I wondered how a man could get over knowing someone he loved had been raped, raped by so many different men, used and ruined. And now, I see. No. You didn’t get over it.” 

She stood up the rest of the way and reached for her suitcase. 

He stood up and ran in front of the front door, blocking her progress. 

“Girl,” he said, putting his hands up, pleading. “You’re wrong. You’re so wrong. I shouldn’t have used that word. I know you’re hurting. I know those wounds still hurt. I know. I know. I know. I always know. That’s why I don’t want you to going to Simon. You’ve made so much progress, baby girl. You’re doing so good. You’re coming to life more and more every day. If you go to that place…girl, there’s only death there. Death…and something worse. The disease that comes before death, the disease that turns men into monsters.” 

She looked up at him, her face still shining with tears. 

“Daryl, I know all about monsters. I’ve had them inside me. Sometimes I think they’re there still, that they’re never gonna away,” she said, each syllable wrung out from some deep place inside of her. “So all I can do is keep trying, keep fighting, keep hanging onto whatever sanity and humanity I have left.” 

They stared at one another, neither speaking, her bright green eyes searching his piercing blue eyes for something, something he couldn’t name but was sure as hell he couldn’t provide. 

“I’m not a doll you can keep locked away from the world,” she said. “I can do things. I can help people. Let me be useful. Let me make a difference. Please.” 

He looked down at the ground.

“I don’t want to leave like this,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to leave you like this.” 

“What else can I do?” he whispered, echoing her words from earlier in their argument. 

He moved to the side of the door. She walked out with her suitcase. 

The hotel room snapped shut like a trap.


	41. welcome home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably won't be able to post again till Monday night...holiday festivities and lots of required socializing..hell for an introvert. wahh.

Daryl knew he could get to the Sanctuary before Rick and Francie and Alden. He knew Rick would be cautious on the road, that he would not take any risks, would follow the speed limit like the born cop he was. 

But, Daryl, Daryl had the devil on his tail.

He waited until Rick led Francie and Alden to his car on the other side of the woods. 

Then, he told Sasha that he was going out to hunt. Carl begged to come along, but Daryl shut him down without a word. He knew Carl didn’t want to hunt. He knew Rick had warned Carl to try and keep Daryl together until he could come back from the Sanctuary. 

But that was like asking someone to stop a thunderstorm. To lay their fingers on the sky and press the raging atmosphere into silent submission. 

He drove fast and reckless. He drove like he used to drive. When he was young and dumb and didn’t care if he died, didn’t care if his bike spun out on the highway and left him in shreds. Hoped it would, some days. 

He didn’t want to die today. He had too much to do. But he had to do it fast. 

When he got close to the Sanctuary, he pulled the brown sedan onto an overgrown dirt road. Made sure to park it deep in the trees so that anyone driving by wouldn’t notice it. Then, he headed on foot up to the walls of the one place he prayed he would never see again. 

It didn’t take long for him to sense the energy moving inside, the noise of people shouting and running as watchmen easily detected him walking towards the front gate. 

He was unarmed. No crossbow, no gun, but he held up his hands for good measure. 

A gate opened, and even before seeing the man, Daryl heard his tell-tale voice. 

“LOOK at what the FUCKING pussy DRAGGED in,” said Negan, bat on his shoulder, trademark leather jacket and smirk perfectly arranged. “My long-lost MOTHERFUCKING favorite pet.” 

Daryl grunted nonchalantly. He knew he was going to be eating shit, and he was fine with it. 

“Need to make a deal,” he said. 

“A fucking deal? Wow, your redneck mama really must have been sucking down that moonshine when she was pregnant with you,” snarled Negan. “Because how else could you be DUMB enough, no FUC-KING ASSSSS-INIE enough to think you are in any goddamn position to make deals right now?” 

“All I want is to be in your cells.” 

Negan stepped back in surprise. 

“You got her for two weeks,” said Daryl. “So you got me too.” 

Negan lifted his thick dark eyebrows and laughed uproariously, putting his hands on his thighs and doubling over. 

“Wait, wait,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes as he stood up. “Are you being motherfucking serious right now?” 

Daryl nodded.

“You want to volun-fucking-tarily come back into a cell and let me—and Dwighty Boy—fuck with you to our heart’s content for 2 weeks? While she’s up in Simon’s room being romanced by that sexy mustached motherfucker?”

Daryl’s body tensed. But he nodded. 

“Well, riddle me this, you trailer park Lothario you,” said Negan, stepping forward and poking at Daryl’s chest with his index finger. “How the fuck do you know if I will let you go when those 2 weeks are up?” 

Daryl shook his head faintly. 

“Don’t,” he said. “But if she’s here, I’m here.” 

Negan gasped and clutched at his heart. 

“Well, motherfuck me in the fucking asshole if that isn’t the most romantic fucking thing I have ever fucking heard,” he said, then added darkly, “Stupidest, too.” 

“Just get me in there before she comes,” said Daryl, starting to get a little anxious, looking behind him as if expecting to see Rick’s car rolling up. 

Negan shouted uproariously. “Oh my GOD! This day keeps getting better and better. So, she’s coming here, and Simon’s going to get that sweet little pussy he’s just been drooling for, and you’re going to be eating Alpo paninis while—

Negan stopped suddenly, which was good, because at the mention of Francie’s pussy, Daryl’s resolve nearly broke in a million pieces. He couldn't lose it now. He couldn't let Negan taunt him into doing something stupid. 

“Oh my god,” Negan said, his hand clutching his mouth. “She doesn’t know you’re doing this. She doesn’t know.” 

Daryl nodded. “She can’t know. That’s part of the deal.”

Negan looked to the heavens with a grin on his face and sighed. 

“Even better,” he smiled, revealing his impossibly white teeth. “Even better. I wouldn’t want Francie to be distracted from Simon’s charming-ass face by worrying about you.” 

Daryl looked to the ground. He was in. 

“JOEY! JOEY!” Negan shouted. “Get this MOTHERFUCKER into his new MOTHERFUCKING HOME!” 

He didn’t have to be dragged. Walking down the basement hallway, the smell flooded his senses with memories. Piss, shit, sweat and something else, something he couldn’t name. 

“Welcome home,” taunted Fat Joey, “Strip.” 

If Francie was here, it was home. He stripped.


	42. static electricity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, just 1 chapter today, and I didn't upload yesterday...my 2-year-old is sick so I have been just holding him upright most the night bc he can't sleep otherwise...ergo can't write! But i have had LOTS OF time to think and plan out new chapters, so bear with me. promise im not giving up!

Something strange was going on. When Daryl entered the Sanctuary again, he did so with the full knowledge and expectation that he would spend the next 2 weeks (and likely many more, countless more) being beaten, abused, starved and treated like a slave. 

What he did NOT expect was this: 

Fat Joey abruptly coming into his cell after only about an hour and throwing him a brand-new pair of clothes (black jeans and a dark gray t-shirt…clean and well-fitting, at that) a pair of boxer briefs, thick socks and pair of combat boots. Before Joey let him dress, he handed him a bar of soap and told him to use the camp shower in the hallway.

A shower and clean laundry…this was more than he received in the month he was captive here last time. The water was cold and harsh, but he didn’t mind. It helped settle his jangling nerves, bring him back to the present and out of the hell he was creating inside his own brain as he pictured Francie’s fate upstairs. 

Fat Joey then escorted Daryl out of the basement and into a new area of the Sanctuary, a place he had never been. Rows and rows of closed doors led down a brightly-lit, wide hallway. It smelled of bleach and soup. Daryl could hear the muffled sound of talking, music, and children's laughter. Must be the dorms for the workers, Daryl figured. But before he could get a grasp of his bearings, Joey chose the padlocked door which was near the fire exit. He undid the complicated chains and then looked at Daryl expectantly, holding the door open wide and motioning for Daryl to come inside. 

Daryl stood there in his new clothes, in his new boots, feeling his knees melt to nothingness. He felt like a child, like a little boy the first time he saw his daddy beat his mama so bad she was in the hospital for weeks. Felt like that little boy watching his mama have her jaw caved in. That little boy with urine running down his sweatpants while Merle clutched him in a headlock and forcefully tried to turn his little brother’s head away from the scene. 

“The fuck is the matter wit’ you?” asked Joey, staring at Daryl. “Oh…for fuck’s sake…I’m not taking you in here to see your girl’s corpse fucked up the ass or something. She ain’t in here.” 

Daryl bit his lower lip angrily at Joey’s words, but relief splintered through the cracks in his heart.

Still, he cautiously entered the room, knowing this was a trap…a spiderweb, but what strand he was jingling as he walked inside, he didn't know.

The room was plain but clean, a small twin-size bed with a blue plaid blanket in the center of the room, and beside it, an old file cabinet being used as a nightstand. On it was a lamp and a bottle of Dasani water. And an ashtray. The only thing unusual was the large imposing wardrobe facing the bed. It was massive, and even Daryl could tell it was expensive. 

“Smokes in the drawer,” said Joey. “And snacks. Boss got you set up.” 

Daryl barely grunted a reply. 

“Oh, just one thing though…Boss says, gotta keep this on at all times,” said Joey, pulling back the wardrobe doors to reveal a huge flat-screen television. 

Joey started playing with the remotes, a frown appearing on his face as he pushed at the buttons and cursed under his breath. 

Daryl sank onto the bed, trying to keep his gaze on the ground but failing, unable to stop glancing up every half-moment to see the television screen and what Joey was doing. 

Finally, the television clapped to life, a loud sound of white noise filling the room.

“Shit, let me turn this down,” said Joey. 

As he lowered the volume, Daryl took in the screen. It showed a large suite with a king-size bed in the center of the room, a couch, and bookshelf near the large sqaure windows, and a small kitchenette in the corner. The furnishings were clearly masculine, and the clothing Daryl could see poking out of the half-shut closet belonged to a man as well. 

He recognized the khaki sheepskin jacket. 

“Simon’s room,” he said out loud, dully, as hollow as a drum. 

“How’d ya guess? See a mustache hair laying on the floor or something?” asked Joey, who then guffawed loudly at his own joke.

“Turn it off,” snapped Daryl. 

“Now, listen, motherfucker,” said Joey, plainly, calmly. “That’s the one rule I just told you, ain’t it? It has to stay on, at all times, including the volume. No matter what.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

Joey’s eyes widened a tad. “Well, shit, brah, I hope you got another face handy because the one you got on now will be fucking ironed to shit. Or hell, maybe hers will be. Maybe both. Two for the price of one. And hey, I saw her outside. Would be a shame to fuck up that natural beauty.” 

Daryl snapped to attention at that. “She’s outside?” 

“Yup,” said Joey. “Negan’s giving her a bit of a tour, seeing as how she didn’t see most of what this place had to offer thanks to her being on the peasant level.” 

“And Simon?” 

Joey shrugged. “Been gone for days. But I'm sure he’s heard the news and is rocketing back here now with his cock half-erect already though.” 

Daryl clenched his fists against his thighs and took a ragged breath. He could not, could not take the bait. 

Francie needed him here. Here. Alert. Capable. Not bruised and concussed and half-cognizant.

Joey sighed in annoyance. 

“Fine, leave ya to it,” he muttered. “But remember, Don’t. Touch. The. T.V.” 

Daryl glowered in response. Fat Joey turned and slammed the door shut, and from the sound of numerous chains rattling and a string of curses emitting from the Savior, Daryl knew Joey was locking him in good and tight. 

Leaving him alone, with a front-row seat to Simon’s room and whatever would happen there. 

He didn’t know how to feel. Relieved, sure, but mainly suspicious. Negan wasn’t doing this out of the good of his heart. He had a plan. And Negan’s plans always ended in bloodshed, but before that, and during that, and after that, his plans had but one main purpose: Extreme psychological torture. 

Just then, a sound came from the television. Daryl froze as he watched Simon’s bedroom door being opened, then Negan strutting in. He had his bat perched on his shoulder, and it appeared to be…wet. 

He was also shirtless. His jeans were streaked with blood. 

Daryl sank onto the floor, knees supporting him while he grasped the mattress with one hand. 

But, then, Negan motioned magnanimously, as if he was playing the part of a gracious host, and Daryl saw a shadow on the floor as someone else entered the room—Francie. 

Daryl exhaled in a forceful, broken burst. 

His body sagged against the bed. 

She was fine. 

No, not fine. Not fine. 

As she tremulously inched into the room, Daryl could see her face become clearer on the screen. The television picture was in color, but Francie’s face looked pale and ashen. She was clutching both hands to her chest in a “X,” as if trying to hold herself together by force. Even from this vantage point, Daryl could see she was shaking. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” said Negan, his booming welcome an odd match for her clearly terrified state. “Simon’s got nice digs, ain’t he? Almost as nice as mine…hell, baby, if you ever want to upgrade to a CALIFORNICATION KING sized bed, you know all you have to do is ask.” 

Francie said nothing, but continued to shake helplessly in the middle of the room. A worker Daryl didn’t recognize suddenly appeared behind her, carrying her luggage. 

“Where’s the fucking food, Mike? Told you to bring food for her, didn’t I?” 

Negan took a menacing step closer to Mike, and Francie leaped into action. 

“No, no, no, no, sorry, sorry,” she said, words tumbling out in a nearly incoherent mess. “I’m not hungry, not hungry. Please don’t. Please don’t.” 

And it was clear she was talking about more than just food. 

“Out,” commanded Negan and Mike left the room, closing it behind him, a confused, terrified look on his face. Daryl knew he was wondering if he was supposed to get the food or not. 

“Look, honey, I don’t want you to be all twitterpated like this,” said Negan. “We are really off on a bad foot. Simon wants you to be happy here. And hell, I want Simon to be happy again so he can FOCUS on my SHIT and stop moping around like a fucking Schnauzer who lost his bone.” 

Francie nodded frantically, an overwhelmed, lost expression on her face. 

“Shit, hot lips, is it cause I killed that man right in front of ya?” 

Her hands flew to her face, and a small strangled gasp came out. 

“Didn’t get any blood on ya, did I? Fuck blood, though. It’s brains that’s hard to get out, amirite?” 

Negan started chuckling to himself as he opened Simon’s small avocado-colored fridge. He pulled out a bowl of grapes and settled down at the table, popping them into his mouth one by one. 

“Want a grape?” 

Francie only shook her head in response. 

“Well, take a load off at least,” said Negan. “Shit, I know I need to take off several loads, if you know what I mean.” 

Francie was crying now, Daryl could tell from the way her small shoulders were shaking, although her face was still hidden. 

“Half-pint, half-pint, half-pintttttttt,” sighed Negan as he got up from his chair and walked around to wrap Francie in a bear hug. 

Daryl’s body went ice-cold. From the motionless, frigid way Francie was standing, Daryl could tell hers had as well. Negan’s hands started stroking up and down her small back, twisting in her hair…the same way…the same way…Daryl’s gut clenched. 

“If I knew me battering the brains outta Scott was gonna be SUCH a problem, I would have waited till you got inside,” said Negan. “But you know, he stole from me. And that shit has to be handled right away, company or no company. It’s just really, really shitty timing, I guess.” 

And, then, Negan turned and gave a long, luxurious wink to the camera. 

Daryl bit the inside of his cheeks so hard he tasted blood. 

“You said he stole a potato,” said Francie, abruptly forcing herself out of Negan’s arms and edging out of his grasp. 

“Yeah, shit, a fucking potato,” said Negan. “Ain’t Atkins-approved, that’s for sure.” 

“You killed a man…you slaughtered a man in front of his family and friends…and all of us…over a potato.” 

Her voice was quivering so badly that it was hard to understand her, but her eyes flashed bravely at Negan as she spoke. My girl, thought Daryl proudly...but not without frustration, as he knew antagonizing the beast was a bad idea. 

“No. No. No. No,” said Negan slowly, picking up his bat from beside the table and moving a few steps closer to Francie. 

Daryl moved closer to the television, so close he was touching the screen, no, grasping at it, almost clawing at it. 

“No, Scrappy-Doo, I didn’t kill that man over a potato,” said Negan, “I killed that man because he took what didn’t belong to him. I don’t care if that is a potato or a fucking…pussy. You get me? You GET me?”

Francie’s eyes went huge and her hands raced to her mouth. She nodded quickly. 

“Listen, I know you left your heart in San Francisco, as the old song goes,” says Negan. “But your body, your body is HERE. And my GOD, what a fine, fine body it is.” 

At this Negan took a few steps back and gave an appreciative appraisal of her frame. 

Francie gasped out, “What do you mean? Simon promised… I didn’t have to— if I didn’t want—he said, he promised—”

“I know what he promised,” said Negan, brushing a few tears off Francie’s cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. “But here’s what I am telling you: You’re here for one reason, and one reason only: To drain Simon’s cock. And if you don’t do that, can’t live up to those exceedingly low standards, then, well….” 

“Well, what?” whispered Francie, now nearly coughing and choking on her tears. 

“Hmm, the possibilities are simply…endless,” said Negan. Then, giving her a bright, face-stretching smile, he strutted out of Simon’s room and shut the door…gently. 

Daryl watched as the love of his life came apart on the floor, huge, whole-body sobs making her small body flutter violently. Daryl listened as the love of his life cried out, quietly, but not so quietly that he couldn’t hear, one pleading word: “Daryl, Daryl, Daryl, Daryl, Daryl.” 

His hands went flat and helpless on the screen in front of him. A jail cell in the center of hell would be better than this. 

He thought about his mama, and her caved-in jaw. His forehead fell on the screen and rested there, static pricking his fingertips. He smelled electricity. 

But he swore, he could smell Francie too.


	43. enjoy the show

Francie was asleep on the couch in Simon’s room. After crying herself out, she had unsurely stood her to her feet, and started to delicately poke around the apartment. Her movements were shaky, uncertain, and she kept jumping and freezing unexpectedly. It took Daryl a while to realize that she must be hearing something he couldn’t—footsteps in the hallway outside Simon’s room, perhaps—and that she was terrified of who might be walking in at any moment. 

For this same reason, she seemed to opt for the couch instead of the bed, as it was further from the entrance. Clearly exhausted, but keeping all of her clothes and even her boots on, she half-reclined on Simon’s couch, keeping her head facing towards the door. Then, even though she was shivering and there was a blanket on the couch back, she fell asleep without covering up, her arms crossed tightly and every muscle on her body as tight as a wire. 

In his own time, Daryl found himself dozing off. Instead of laying in bed, he rested his back against it, so he could be on the floor and closer to the television. He shut his eyes. 

When he woke, he couldn’t tell how much time had passed. His tailbone was aching from his position on the hard floor, and he heard chains jangling outside the door. 

His eyes flew to the television to check on Francie. She was still alone and asleep on the couch, though he couldn’t imagine it was restful, as he could see her shivering even through the camera. 

The doorknob to his room turned. Daryl instantly rose to his feet, fists clenched by his sides. 

It was Negan. He grinned widely when he saw Daryl’s position fixed in front of the television. 

“Damn, talk about must-see-T.V am I right, hoss?”

Daryl stayed silent. 

Negan stood beside him and stared at the screen. “Damn, little Sleeping Beauty all by her lonesome. Don’t worry, Simon will be here to take care of that soon.”   
Daryl glowered at him. 

“What? Don’t like the picture quality? Want me to set up a cam in the bathroom too? You into that kind of thing, you freaky-deaky motherfucker?” taunted Negan, his pearly whites glinting even in the darkened room. 

“I thought you didn’t agree with rape,” Daryl spit out. 

Negan clutched his heart as though Daryl had wounded him. 

“Course I don’t, you fucking greaser,” he snapped. “And don’t ever say otherwise. Shit hurts my pride. My rep. My nobility.” 

Daryl scoffed and pointed to the television. “Then what’s this about? What about all the stuff you said…you told her--”

Here, words failed him. 

Negan settled down on Daryl’s bed and crossed his feet, propping his arms behind his head and letting out an exhale. 

“Smoke?” Negan offered Daryl, opening the drawer and holding out the box of Marlboros. 

For once, Daryl turned down a cigarette. Negan shrugged and lit up. 

“You ever heard of ‘good cop, bad cop’?” 

Daryl narrowed his eyes as a sign of assent. 

“Of course you have. How much time did a piece of trailer trash like you spend in jail anyway?” 

Daryl only glared. 

“Well, Dar-Bear,” said Negan, inhaling with pure pleasure on his face. “That’s what we got going on here. A little good cop, a little bad cop.” 

Negan patted himself on the chest when he said ‘bad cop.’ 

“Simon, of course, being ‘good cop,’ whenever his mustached ass shows up.” 

Daryl snorted. 

“What?” asked Negan, blowing out a trail of smoke. 

“You think that’s really gonna work on her?” laughed Daryl. “You think you’re gonna kill a couple guys in front of her, terrorize her, and then Simon is be the hero wiping her tears away? And you think that’s gonna make her want to…want…to--”

“Ride his dick into the sunset? Well, yes, motherfucker, that’s exactly what I think.” 

“You don’t know her at all if you think she’s that easy to manipulate,” said Daryl, smiling a little to himself, and picking up a cigarette from the box on the dresser. 

“She barely even trusted my people, you think she’s gonna trust that rat-faced piece of shit?”

“Hmm,” said Negan thoughtfully. “You don’t know ME at all if you think I don’t know a thing or two about turning even the toughest broads into the most submissive, cock-hungry little girls you ever could meet.” 

Daryl’s hand froze with the lighter near his cigarette. He was shaking so bad the flame was dancing uncontrollably. 

“Yeah,” said Negan, sitting up and walking behind Daryl to clap him on his back. “There’s a new daddy in town. And he is giving out free mustache rides.” 

At this, Negan laughed uproariously and then clenched Daryl tightly on his shoulder. 

“Enjoy the show, tiger.”


	44. stockholm

Daryl had never spent much time thinking about Simon before he discovered his connection to Francie. Now, alone in his room, he thought of nothing else. He sat and smoked cigarette after cigarette, watching Francie sleep, and racking his brain for every memory, every interaction, every story he ever heard about Simon. Merle had taught him that while he was teaching Daryl to hunt—taught Daryl to think about everything he ever knew or noticed about his prey, to apply every piece of knowledge, no matter how small or insignificant-seeming, to the bloody mission at hand. 

So that is what he did now, in these long, imprecise hours. He thought of Simon. Of his mannerisms. His cadence. The way he led his men. The way he fought. The way he spoke to Rick and Gregory compared to the way he spoke to women like Olivia and Carol. 

And he realized that there was something to Negan’s plan. Simon had an earthy suavity, a masculine readiness to open doors, lift heavy objects, crack tension-breaking jokes, and adjust his language around women he wanted to impress. 

When he called the women in Alexandria “sweetheart” or “darling,” they didn’t cringe like they did when addressed as such by Negan or Gregory. Daryl reflected that this might be because Simon made his words seemed natural, authentic, well-intentioned, like he really did find them sweet and darling. His compliments and pet names didn’t hide a threat, as they did with Negan, or a promise of creepy come-on’s, as they did with Gregory, but rather a Wild West, old-school swaggering masculinity that even women like Carol (or especially women like Carol, Daryl thought) could accept and even enjoy without fear. 

All of this alone would not sway Francie, of course, but in comparison to an unhinged sadist enacting human rights’ crimes right in front of her face, yeah…he could see why Negan might think a girl would want to turn her head and hide her face in a comforting male shoulder. 

It wasn’t that Daryl thought for a second that Francie could be so easily tricked into falling into Simon’s lap. ‘Good cop, bad cop’ was some juvenile-ass shit that only someone as dumb as Eugene would fall for, Daryl thought to himself derisively. 

But, then again, Eugene hadn’t endured the hell that Francie had. Her mental state right now was still uncertain, and she was becoming re-accustomed to reality like an injured person re-learning how to use their legs. This was what worried him. How Negan would be able to easily identify and operate on those parts of her brain which were most vulnerable, most easy to distort and mold. 

No, he didn’t think Francie would fall into love or even into bed with Simon, but he did fear the mental torture she would have to endure for the time being. All he had to hold onto now was the weak hope that Negan claimed to be against rape, which was difficult to trust, especially as he had just witnessed Negan cleverly and unfeelingly taunt Francie with that possible reality. 

Was it only to weaken her mental state, terrify her into submission? Daryl remembered how his daddy always used to tell them that they were ‘lucky’ it wasn’t worse, that he COULD be beating them in the face with his belt, but instead he was only whipping their backs and ass and legs. As fucked up as it sounded to Daryl now, at the time, his dad’s words had engendered a kind of gratitude in him, a fear that it could be much, much worse so he better accept this parcel of pain without questioning it. 

Yeah, Daryl knew a thing about Stockholm Syndrome. About loving your abuser. About thinking you can fix in the evil in someone else if you just try to be so, so good and never, ever mess up. 

“There is no one easier to degrade and control than a former abuse survivor.” 

Carol told him that once. She had been talking about her own bad childhood, how that led her to pick men like Ed, how it led her to accept being hit and hurt every day as though it was what she deserved.

Now, looking at Francie in her fitful sleep on Simon’s couch, Daryl went gray with fear as he thought about what abuse and degradation she might be willing to accept after the horrors she had been through. What she might be wrought into believing about herself. What she might submit to in the name of being a ‘good girl,’ in the name of protecting Daryl and keeping his people safe. 

And, then, as Daryl watched with zombie-like attention, Simon’s door opened…and Simon walked in.


	45. i could take him

Francie shattered to awareness on the couch, her face breaking into a horrified gasp as she struggled out of sleep. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Daryl heard Simon say softly, shutting the door behind him and rushing across the room. 

She struggled to stand and instead stumbled off the couch, breaking her fall by grasping the couch cushion.

“It’s just me, it’s just me,” said Simon soothingly…as if his presence should be a comfort to her, thought Daryl sardonically. 

He reached down to pull Francie upright, but she pushed off his hands and stood up herself. Then…she hauled back and punched him right in the face. 

Daryl moaned in disbelief, and Simon’s head snapped backwards as the sucker-punch took him by surprise. 

Daryl found himself standing, clutching his fists as if he could fight this battle, steeling himself for what he was about to see. 

Simon reached out his hand. Francie shut her eyes and waited for the blow. 

“I’m sorry, Kitten,” he said, stroking her hair off her face. “I deserved that.” 

Daryl let out a ragged sigh. 

“You deserved MORE than that,” hissed Francie angrily, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” 

Daryl watched in silent disbelief as Francie rained her small fists down on Simon’s chest, beating him ineffectually while Simon stood there patiently, with a sympathetic look on his face. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” she sobbed out finally, giving up and sinking back down onto the couch. “Why couldn’t you just let me go?” 

Simon sighed and sat beside her. 

“Aw, kitten…I could have, I would have…if it had been anyone else but Daryl. Don’t you see? I couldn’t let you end up with a man like that. He’s dangerous. You can’t trust him. You wouldn’t be safe with him. You have to be safe. You have to be, kitten. Or I’m not doing my job right.”

“Oh? But I’m safe here?” snapped Francie. “Negan beat a man to death right in front of me, a kid no older than 18. And he laughed, Simon, he laughed the whole time.” 

Here, she hid her face in her hands. Simon made a sad groan. 

“He does things that are…challenging to watch,” said Simon, lightly stroking the hair on her back. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’ll try to keep you away from that stuff from now on, okay? You’re safe here with me. You’re always safe here with me.” 

“I just want to go home,” she cried. 

“This is your home, kitten,” corrected Simon. “This is where you belong. Where you came from, before you wound up getting hurt and lost out there.” 

“No,” said Francie, standing up heatedly. “This isn’t my home. This is hell. Daryl…Daryl is my home.” 

Daryl saw Simon’s twist into a miserable scowl at that. 

“I don’t want to hear that dumb fuck’s name on more time, do you understand me, kitten?” said Simon ominously. 

“Or what?” retorted Francie. “You’ll hurt me?” 

“Shut up, girl, damn it!” Daryl snapped at the screen, biting his thumbnail to the quick. 

Simon let out a deep exhale. 

“No, kitten, I wouldn’t ever do that,” he said. “But when I get angry, I might do bad things. Bad things to other people. People you love. Persons you love. Person, should I say.” 

“You couldn’t,” said Francie loftily. “You couldn’t even find him if you wanted to. And even if you DID find him, he would kick your ass so ba---

Suddenly, Simon’s hand wrapped across her mouth, the other arm pushing her by her neck up against the wall. They were so close to the camera now that Daryl could see the tears shining in the corner of her eye. 

“Watch your mouth, honey,” he growled throatily. “I might not hurt you, but I will put you over my knee and spank that sweet little ass.” 

Daryl felt queasy with disgust. Francie went pale. 

She gave a weak nod. 

“That’s a sweetheart,” said Simon appreciatively. “Now we’re cooking with gas!” 

He let her go. She stumbled forward a little at the removal of his arm. 

“Go get your nightie on, little girl,” commanded Simon. “I want to hit the hay.” 

She looked at the couch, but Simon stopped her before she spoke. 

“Bed.”

It was a one-syllable reply but it held all the information she needed. 

She picked up something out of her suitcase and went to the bathroom and shut the door. 

“Fiery tonight,” said Simon, then opened up a few cabinets in his kitchen, finally pulling out a bottle of tequila and a glass. 

Groaning in relief as he sat down, he uncorked the bottle with his teeth and poured in a few fingers. 

He sat and quietly drank for a while, then eased off his boots, his jacket, and his t-shirt. 

Daryl appraised his body like he was sizing up an opponent in a cage-match. Where Daryl had mass, Simon was lean and sharp. Simon’s muscles were precise and cut like glass, but they weren’t workman’s muscles, not earned by the sweat of his brow and the reality of life outside the gates, but muscles earned in a gym, earned by repetition and vanity, not resilience and necessity. 

I could take him, for sure, Daryl thought cockily. 

Then, Simon started to take off his pants. Daryl closed his eyes for a brief second, fearing what he was about to see—and more to the point, what Francie was about to see—but, fortunately, Simon had on a pair of blue boxers. 

He tossed back the rest of his drink and flopped his body into bed with a boyish grin. 

Finally, the door opened. Francie came out in a t-shirt and a pair of leggings. Daryl froze for a moment. It was his t-shirt, one he had been wearing since he and Rick raided the superstore near Hilltop. 

To his relief, Simon didn’t seem to notice or care what she was wearing. 

“Get in bed, kitten,” he said. “Big day tomorrow. Need your sleep.”

“What’s tomorrow?” she asked in a small voice, climbing gingerly into bed beside Simon, trying to keep her body as far on her side as possible without rolling off. “Won’t I just be in here?” 

He eased onto the pillow. 

“No, darling, you’re going everywhere I go,” he said. “Can’t ever be apart again.” 

Simon shut off the light. The screen went black.


	46. good cop, bad cop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guhhh - seriously such a shit week, was up all night w my 4 year old throwing up, so my brain is q. addled and i only have one chapter again. so, i present it to you with some trepidation but hopefully things can get back to normal next week bec i want to write this story damn it!!!!!!!!!

Sometime during the night, Daryl fell into a murky, blood-thick sleep. He was dreaming about a ship unmanned on the ocean, buffeted on the waves, when suddenly he heard Francie calling for him. He moaned deeply, tiredly and reached out for her, searching for her small frame so he could pull her close to his chest and settle her. 

But his arms kept searching, searching, grabbing nothing but air.

Confused, Daryl sat upright, and as he did so, he realized he was on the floor, not in his bed at the hotel. “Daryl, Daryl!” came her plea again, and this time he could hear that it was coming not from beside him, but from the television. He let out a hollow, helpless groan. 

He stood up on his knees and grasped bleary-eyed for the television. It was so dark in Simon’s room, he couldn’t see a thing on the camera.

“Daryl, Daryl,” she begged, and although he couldn’t see, he knew the way she would look…the way her body would be twisted and tangled in the bedsheets, the way she would be trembling, the confused, frantic expression on her face. 

“Wake up, asshole!” Daryl hissed at the T.V. “Wake up!” 

He realized the ludicrousness of wanting Simon to wake up and comfort Francie, but his body was wracked with useless adrenaline, unable to do anything but sit and listen to her suffer. 

Finally, Simon seemed to come to awareness, a masculine growl coming across the speakers, followed by a “Hmm? What is it?” 

The room went silent. Daryl could picture Francie awake and alert now, desperately trying to grasp her bearings in the blackened room, trying to place the strange male voice beside her. 

Just then, Simon blessedly turned on the small lamp on the nightstand. 

Francie was just as Daryl pictured, sitting upright and grasping her knees to her chest, looking around the room frantically, her hair loose and wild and her eyes huge with fear. 

“Where am I?” she sobbed. “Where’s Daryl? Who are you?” 

Simon’s tired face softened. “You’re safe, kitten. It’s just me Simon. You’re just half-asleep, okay? Bad dream is all.”

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,” she cried, rocking back and forth on the bed. “Don’t like this, don’t like this, don’t like this, don’t like this.” 

Simon sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. He let out a ragged sigh. 

“Shit, you’re all messed up, aren’t you, baby?” he said. “C’mon, it’s safe. You’re safe.” 

He tried to reach out for her, but Francie’s body froze. 

“You want to sleep with the light on from now on?” 

“Yes, dumbass,” snapped Daryl.

Francie nodded desperately. 

Simon watched her for a minute, and it was to his credit that even Daryl could see the distress and confusion on his face. 

“Would it make you feel better if I slept on the couch, sweetheart?” 

Francie looked up startled, then over at the couch. 

She nodded again. 

He let out a tired sigh and sat up the rest of the way, grabbing his pillow. 

“Alright,” he said, then shuffled across the room. 

Laying down on the cushions, Daryl expected Simon to simply fall asleep. 

But he didn’t. 

With Francie still pinned upright in a motionless state of terror, Simon started talking. 

His voice was low, husky, so deep and quiet it was hard for Daryl to hear. Daryl pressed his ear closer to the television. 

A frown came over his face. Simon was telling her a bedtime story. 

Daryl wanted to roll his eyes, but he could tell Francie was listening. Her body unfolded bit by bit, as Simon’s convoluted story of wolves and princesses and magic ice crystals continued on, and within 10 minutes, she was laying flat on her pillow again, staring wordlessly up at the ceiling. 

Simon stopped speaking for a minute, and Francie glanced over. 

“Then what?” she asked shyly. 

He heard Simon lightly chuckle. 

He continued his story. 

And Daryl stood there, watching another man comfort his girl, watching himself being replaced, watching himself being written out of the fairy-tale. 

****** 

When Daryl woke up in the morning, head pounding, mouth thick, back sore, he instantly turned to the television screen…and was horrified to find it black. 

He grabbed the remote and pushed whatever button he could think of to turn the damn thing on, but it was to no avail. 

Finally, he started hollering for Fat Joey, banging on the door with his closed fists as loud as he could. 

He got a rapid reply, from a very grouchy-looking Joey carrying a plate of eggs and ham. 

“Fuck, dude, fucking chill,” complained Joey as he pushed around Daryl with the tray in his outstretched hands. “What the fuck you think is, the fuckin’ Hilton? I’m hurrying as fast as I can with the damn eggs.” 

“Not the eggs, the damn T.V. broke!” bit out Daryl, impatiently pointing to the blank screen. 

Joey looked unperturbed. “Nah, it ain’t,” he said. “Boss giving you a new feed is all. Be up soon.” 

“New feed?” asked Daryl warily. 

“Yup,” he said. “Now eat this damn shit, fucking lucky motherfucker. Even the Saviors don’t eat this good on the regular.” 

Daryl looked at the plate in front of him. In truth, it looked delicious and the smell was so tantalizing he was almost blissful just from breathing it in. Plus, he needed the calories and protein if he was going to stay strong, he reasoned.

He didn’t need a second urging. As soon as Joey left the room, he dug in, not leaving even a solitary crumb. 

Just as he was fixing to worry about Francie, a scratching sound came from the speakers and Daryl’s eyes flew to the television. 

He saw Negan’s head tilted sideways, peering cockeyed into the camera. He grinned. 

“This thing on?” 

Daryl said nothing. Not like Negan could hear him anyway. 

“Well, shit, the light’s on, so I assume so. Hope you liked your breakfast, big guy,” smiled Negan. “Hope you like the entertainment portion of the morning even better.” 

As Negan’s giant head moved out of the camera, Daryl was able to see that he was no longer looking into Simon’s room. Instead, it looked like Negan’s private office. Morning sunlight was filtering in bravely through the dull factory windows, and Negan’s desk was spread with a breakfast very similar to what Daryl had just eaten. Eggs, bacon, coffee…but not for one person. Three. 

Daryl groaned. Fucking prick. 

Sure enough, in a matter of minutes, Daryl heard Simon’s voice booming out “Something smells GOOOD” and then, he entered the room…with Francie following uncertainly behind him. It looked as though she had showered. Her hair was still faintly wet and loose around her shoulders, and her face was clean of makeup. The effect made her look younger, smaller, and Daryl’s heart clutched a little…especially when he saw Simon’s hand was loosely around her wrist, tugging her along behind him. 

“Hi, there, gorgeous,” welcomed Negan. “Hope you slept well…if this lady-killer here didn’t keep you all night.”

Here, Negan let out a giant, knowing guffaw, and Francie visibly cringed. Simon stopped and put an arm around Francie’s shoulders, loosely, but almost protectively. 

Again, Daryl felt his heart clench. 

“Got me all wrong, boss,” said Simon genially. “Nothing but a gentleman. She brings out the best in me.” 

Negan gave a dramatic eye-roll but pointed to the food on his desk. 

“Sit, eat,” he commanded. 

Simon pulled out a chair for Francie and helped her sit down, and now Daryl rolled his eyes. He was really fuckin’ laying it on thick, Daryl thought, but Francie seemed too nervous and shattered to notice anything unusual. 

Simon prepared her a plate, without asking Francie what she wanted, and Daryl noted with superiority that he picked several foods she would never touch, like ham and peaches. But she accepted the plate without a word, and started to break up her toast into small bites, eating it bit by bit, while Simon and Negan started talking business over their meals. 

He knew he should have been paying attention, listening for any clues or any inside information, but Negan knew he was listening and wouldn’t be dumb enough to reveal anything of actual importance. That’s what Daryl told himself anyway, because all he could do was stare at Francie and memorize her every moment, as if he could crystallize her very being into amber and hold it in his hands if he looked at her long enough. As if she sensed his observation (thought she couldn’t, he knew she couldn’t), Francie ate in an almost dream-like state, her green eyes a million miles away as the men spoke. 

“Don’t you agree, sweetheart?” asked Simon suddenly, shaking both Francie and Daryl out of their reverie. 

“I wasn’t listening,” she confessed. 

“What were you thinking about?” inquired Negan with a knowing grin on his face. “You looked a million miles away.” 

Her face lost a little color. Her lips closed tightly and she shrugged. 

“Damn, you’re a better man than me,” said Negan to Simon. “See, I couldn’t stand to have a bitch of mine thinking about another man right in front of me, especially not with that look on her face.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about him—” Francie began, but Simon cut her off. 

“Don’t call her that,” said Simon shortly. “Don’t ever call her that.” 

His voice was quiet and calm, but menacing. Negan’s brows went up an inch. Francie looked shocked. 

“Wow, is that how it is?” asked Negan. “All loyalty goes out the window when you get some new trim in town?” 

Simon made a motion as if to stand up in his chair, but Negan’s hands instantly went up.

“Hey, hey,” he said. “No need for all that. No FUCKIN’ need at all. Shit, nobody has a sense of humor anymore. So P.C. nowadays, right, Francie?” 

She only gripped her hands tighter in her lap. Daryl saw once again that Simon’s arm had suddenly found its way around the back of Francie’s chair, a simple but meaningful gesture, as if he was just a moment away from pulling her protectively in his arms. 

Daryl wanted Francie to flinch. To tell Simon to ‘fuck off,’ to hit him like she had last night. 

He wanted that, because he was selfish and insecure and a coward. But he knew that the best thing for her to do was exactly what she was doing right now, quietly accepting his protection and staring hopefully up at him as if asking “Can we go now?” 

“C’mon, kitten, I got lots of shit to do today,” said Simon, hearing her silent request as plainly as Daryl had. “Been away too long. Need to crack some skulls.” 

“See?” said Negan grinning and propping his boots up on his desk. “That’s the Simon I know and love.” 

Francie didn’t need to be asked twice, practically tripping over Simon’s boots as she scurried to follow him out of Negan’s office. 

“Later,” Simon tossed off, and the door slammed. 

For a moment, all was silent, save the sound of Negan’s light humming. 

“Good cop, bad cop,” Negan said with a contented sigh. “Good cop, bad cop.” 

He turned to flash a smile at the camera. “Now it’s time for boss-man to have some alone time. Unless you want to me watch me eat out my favorite wife?” 

Daryl’s lip curled and Negan laughed heartily as if picturing his disgusted response. 

“Sayonara, you sack of shit,” said Negan playfully, his head large on the screen again, and then the camera went black. 

Good cop, bad cop. Good cop, bad cop. 

The words rung out in Daryl’s head. He wondered where Simon was taking her, what she would have to endure between now and the next time he could see her face again. Then he realized with concern that she only had eaten a few bites of toast, not that Simon noticed. Again, even as he warred with anxiety, he felt a small glint of pride in this: He could take better care of her than Simon could. He could. 

Couldn’t he? 

Finally getting off the floor, tailbone aching, Daryl curled in his bed and disappeared into sleep.


	47. shattering it all over the floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i know, y'all...but you gonna get this slow burn and you gonna like it!!!! ;) sorry i was raised on soaps and i love gothic romance so i do believe suffering is a prime component of romance. lol.

The camera in Simon’s room didn’t switch back on until the late afternoon. In the interim, Daryl had been fed not once, but twice—huge corned beef sandwich with fries for lunch, and fresh fruit with cheese and crackers a couple hours later. 

Daryl was starting to wonder what the hell Negan was trying to prove with all of this, but again he reasoned it was better not to look a gift horse in the mouth. A hunger strike would achieve nothing, and would only weaken him for whatever physical challenges lay ahead. 

But he ate without enjoyment, without sensation, as he did when he later was taken to a private bathroom and allowed a warm bath and more clean clothes. 

It was almost as though Negan was trying to prove something, as if he was telling Daryl “You can have everything you want in the world…except her,” and on some level, Negan’s psychological torment was working. There was something ghastly and inhuman about life’s little pleasures in the wake of his loss, as if he couldn’t believe food could still taste good to him or warm water could still soothe him even amidst such suffering. It reminded Daryl of how Carol felt the first holiday season after Sophia was gone. They had only had a modest celebration on the farm, but even that small bit of holiday cheer had seemed to erode Carol’s heart. 

“I just don’t understand,” she had whispered to Daryl as they shared a cigarette in front of the fireplace after Christmas dinner, the others too distracted by Beth’s pleasant caroling to notice their conversation. 

“Understand what?” he asked. 

“How did…how did Christmas still come if she isn’t here?” 

Daryl never forgot those words, and he thought of them now as Negan plied him with decadence after decadence, giving him food and hot baths and expensive new clothes which even Negan’s top men didn’t get to enjoy. But Negan could lay a king’s bounty in front of Daryl and it would never cure the aching hole inside his heart. And Negan knew that. And so, it gave him pleasure to torment him in this manner, to incessantly remind him of the incurable lifetime of emptiness Negan intended to deliver to him. 

And, as for the unlucky woman who Negan delivered to him shortly after lunch? The one who tried to wheedle and seduce a nonplussed Daryl into “anything he wanted”? That was kid stuff. 

Even as Daryl stared down at the blonde-haired girl as she sunk seductively between his thighs, he knew this was all for Negan’s pleasure. That somewhere upstairs Negan would be laughing his ass off as he pictured how cringy this scene would be…for both him, and the woman, who Daryl pitied more than he despised, even though the feeling of her acrylic nails palming his dick through his jeans made him nauseous. 

“I don’t want anything you got,” he had half-growled at her, pushing her off him and standing up instantly, leaving her on the floor looking not at all surprised. She shrugged and took one of his cigarettes, lighting it up as she struggled to shove her feet back into her stilettos with just one hand. 

“Hey,” he had said to her as she was about to leave the room. 

She turned to look back at him, her glazed expression clearly of someone who was drunk or high or both. He knew that look. Had seen it in so many of Merle’s girls. It wasn’t just the look of someone intoxicated. It was the look of someone who had given up. Someone who was just going to play the game till the clock ran out, but already knowing they lost and deciding that since it couldn’t be changed, best thing to do next was just not care. 

“What do you think about Simon?” he asked her. 

She raised an eyebrow. “You mean like…wait, what do you mean?” 

“Like as a person.” 

“As a man?”

He nodded. 

She looked a bit distant for a moment. “He’s nice to me…He’s nice.”

“Like how?” 

She looked around suspiciously. “Is this some kind of trick? I don’t want to get in trouble here.” 

“Just asking if you think he’s cool or something,” said Daryl, trying to sound casual. “Ain’t nothing.” 

Again that distant look, followed by a small smile. 

“Yeah, he’s nice.” 

Her mouth opened as if to say more, but then she shut her lips quickly. The suspicious look returned. 

“Fuck off, you queer,” she said suddenly, angrily. “Gonna tell Negan you wouldn’t let me suck your cock.” 

The door shut so loud it shook the ashtray on his nightstand. 

Yep, thought Daryl. Just about what he feared. In comparison to a prick like Negan, even half-an-asshole like Simon would come off looking like a fucking saint. Easy enough to see Negan’s wife felt some type of way about him, but then again, what could she really feel when she was so clearly self-medicating? 

He tried to tell himself that anyway. 

And then, finally, finally, the screen came back on. 

Simon was sitting at the table drinking his tequila again, a relaxed and patient look on his face. 

For a while, they made an odd couple. Simon drinking alone, Daryl watching him drink alone. Does he even know I’m watching? Daryl wondered. How much has Negan told him? 

All that flew from his head when the bathroom door opened and Francie exited. She was wearing a slinky minidress with tiny straps. It was the color of slate and it made her green eyes and pale skin seem almost ethereal. Her long dark hair was pulled into a complicated updo, making her appear nearly naked in Daryl’s eyes, all exposed skin and vulnerable curves.

“Shitttt,” breathed Simon, when he turned around and saw her. 

She gave a little self-conscious shrug. “Is it okay?” 

“FUCK,” was all Simon managed to get out this time around. 

She looked down at the ground, and at first Daryl thought that Simon’s primitive reaction to her appearance was disturbing her, but her wringing, trembling hands suggested more than that. 

Simon seemed to notice as well. 

“It’s just a party, sweetheart,” he said gently. “Not gonna let anybody hurt you.” 

“I can’t…I can’t stand being around him,” she said, her voice shaking as her hand went to quickly wipe away a tear before it streaked her makeup. “He makes me feel like…like there’s nothing good left in the world and everything’s dirty and bad and j-j-just h-hopeless.” 

She started to stutter on the last words, her emotion getting the best of her. 

“C’mon, baby,” said Simon gently, clutching her by the wrist and stroking his thumb along the tender skin there. “I hate to see you get upset like this. Here. Have a tequila with me, okay?” 

He pulled her down into the chair next to him with little resistance. Instead of getting her a new glass, he just handed her the glass he had already been drinking. The intimacy of this struck Daryl even more than the shock of seeing Francie in such a sexy outfit, even more than seeing Simon waiting for her like it was date night, and she was his. 

She took a small, hesitant sip, held it in her mouth…then swallowed. 

Simon was about to take the glass back but she then lifted it up again, and finished the clear liquid in one fell swoop. 

His brows went up. 

Her hand went to her throat and she gasped a little. 

“Take it easy,” said Simon, a bit remonstratively. “Ain’t trying to get you drunk.” 

Now it was Francie’s turn to look surprised. “Why not?” 

“The hell you mean why not?” asked Simon, pouring himself more tequila. 

“Because…I mean, wouldn’t you want me drunk?”

Simon slammed the cup down. “Shit, kind of man you take me for? You think I want to get a girl drunk just to get her to fuck me or something?” 

She shrugged. 

“I mean…consider why I am here. It’s not out of a burning desire to be with you.” 

Here, Simon’s scowl deepened. “Shit, girl, keep drinking then. Puke your guts out if you want. Was just trying to take care of you.” 

“I already had a man doing that,” snapped Francie, grabbing the cup from him and downing the liquid once more. 

Simon growled in irritation and smacked the cup from her hands, shattering it all over the floor. 

Daryl could tell the liquor was already taking an effect because Francie didn’t even jump at the sudden sound. 

“After all you heard today, you still defending that man?” he asked in disbelief. 

“What did I hear? A couple of sad-sack women blaming Daryl for their husbands’ deaths.” 

He clucked his tongue. “Never thought I would hear you be so callous.” 

She looked down at her hands. Her fingernails were painted blood-red, Daryl noticed. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, in a small voice. “I know they were in real pain. But I can’t see how they can blame Daryl.” 

“Because he killed their husbands in cold-blood while they slept?” asked Simon, making a fist on the table and pounding it for good measure. But still Francie didn’t jump. 

“It wasn’t his fault,” said Francie quietly. “You guys started it.” 

Simon sighed again. “Something a four-year-old would say,” he retorted. “We’re talking about men’s lives here.”

“And how many has Negan killed? I can count three, and those are just ones I saw, not even counting the one from yesterday!” she yelled.

“Well, you hate him!” snapped Simon. “So why not hate Daryl too?” 

“There is no comparison,” she bit out, standing up and pushing her chair away. “Even a FOUR-YEAR-OLD could see that.” 

But as she pushed off from the table, a piece of glass must have impaled her foot, because suddenly she cried out in pain and grasped the chair for balance.  


“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” muttered Francie as Simon bent down in front of her on the floor to look at her foot. 

“Fuck,” said Simon sadly, and then his head fell forward a bit, dangerously close to Francie’s lap, in Daryl's opinion. 

“What?” asked Francie fearfully. “Is it bad?” 

“What—what happened to your feet?” He asked, picking up the other one and examining the bottom of it as well. “These scars.” 

“Oh,” said Francie, and Daryl said the same thing at the same moment. Her scars. From her time in the woods. She could walk now with no issue, but the deep lacerations there had left scars on the bottoms of her feet which would always be faintly visible to the naked eye. 

She didn't need to explain.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” said Simon, and it was clear he meant more than the glass or the argument or Daryl or Negan or any of it. 

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she said, finally, and Daryl froze.

Simon looked up at her. 

“Yeah, I do,” he said dully, as if all the fight had left him. “I’m—I’m the reason you got hurt so bad, kitten. I’m the reason for all of it.”


	48. double-crossed

“What do you mean?” Francie asked, her hands falling in her lap. 

He looked down at the ground. “I…I put that man down in the cells. Jacob. On purpose. To help you…only I didn’t…I had no idea, sweetheart, you have to believe me…he double-crossed me in the worst way possible. He was supposed to take you somewhere safe, leave you there with some supplies until I could get there. Until I could figure out a way to fix it with Negan.” 

Francie shook her head. “I don’t understand.” 

“He was working for me. I couldn’t just break you out myself. Negan would make sure we were both dead by sunrise the next day. And I knew Negan would never believe you could get out alone. Hell, no one would believe that. You were ninety pounds and nearly comatose. So I needed to have someone who could help you,” said Simon. “I picked someone I thought I could trust. An ex-Savior who was in Negan’s bad books for being a coward and shitty at his job. Didn’t take much to convince him this would be a better life—a few months in the cells in exchange for being free of the Sanctuary, and Negan…not to mention, a shit ton of supplies and the added bonus of screwing Negan over. So I told Negan that he fucked up again, only I lied and said he cheated us out of a whole truck of liquor.”

Francie shook her head again. 

“All he had to do was bide his time and then take you out of there one night when I left the door open,” said Simon. “But he didn’t listen. He got greedy. He wanted more. Or maybe it was the cells too. It makes you crazy. Robs your sanity. Your humanity. You know?” 

Francie stared blankly at him. 

“He wasn’t supposed to keep you with him. To tell anyone about you. Let alone—let alone, share you with them. He tried to blackmail me, said he wouldn’t give you back unless I gave him more dope and more supplies and a way to get to Birmingham. Said he had family there.” 

“He told me someone on the outside was helping him,” said Francie, and her voice was as confused as Daryl felt. “The man who met us outside the gates. Perkins, he called him.” 

Simon shook his head fiercely. “Another fucking ex-Savior druggie who Negan kept around for grunt work like burying walkers and being cannon fodder for assholes like Rick. He was always tight with Jacob. I never should have trusted Jacob to keep a secret. He never could do shit alone. Always needed a sidekick,” said Simon, and here his voice broke with rage. Francie hissed in pain, and Simon looked down to realize he was grasping her foot in his hand still, tightening his palm around it accidentally in his fury. 

“Sorry,” he said again. 

No one spoke for a while as Simon started to intently nudge the glass out of her big toe with his finger, his hand comically large on her small foot. She winced again. 

“I need tweezers, think I’m making it worse,” he said, standing up. 

“No, no,” she said quickly. “You aren’t making it worse.” 

He paused.

“It makes me feel better…that you tried.” 

“But, I’m the reason for all of the bad stuff that happened to you,” he said brokenly, gesturing down at her feet and then her head, as if implying her mental state. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said firmly. “It was theirs. And Negan’s. Not yours. You tried.”

He sank back to his knees again, grasping her foot in his hands. “I thought about you every day out there. Once I knew, once I knew he double-crossed me, and you weren’t at the hideout, and he had you, and he was hurting you…it was like something changed inside me forever. I never stopped looking. I never stopped looking. I never stopped looking. I never stopped looking.”

She sighed, and laid down on the bed, her dress pulling up suggestively to more than her mid-thigh, but Simon seemed too lost in his own pain to notice. 

“Please, let’s stay home, Simon. Don’t make me see that man,” she said. “Please let’s just stay here.” 

“Anything you want, baby,” he said, and the words poured out so fast it seemed Daryl heard them before Simon even finished forming the sentence. 

She called it ‘home,’ thought Daryl, and somewhere inside of him, he went unmoored. 

Simon sat down at the base of the bed and picked up her injured foot again. From this angle, Daryl could see that his jeans were stained with her blood, as were his fingers. Daryl flashed back to that morning when Francie got her period and he had her blood all over his fingers, but for a much different reason. 

His jaw quivered so tightly he could feel the muscle starting to ache. He shut his eyes for a moment. 

“Night, night, bitch,” said a voice over the speakers, and Daryl looked up in burning agony to see Negan smiling on the screen in his office. 

Then, the screen went dark. 

She called it ‘home.’ She called it ‘home.’ 

She called it ‘home.’ 

She called it ‘home.’ 

He dreamed of an unmanned boat and waves and an unbroken black sky, but then the sky moved, and it wasn’t night at all, but a cloud of thick, black flies buzzing, humming, laughing, just laughing...


	49. Francie-isms

If Daryl had thought seeing Francie accept Simon’s apology (and seemingly, accept her new reality with Simon) was painful, he had no idea how painful NOT seeing her would be. 

And yet that is exactly what happened for the next several days. Again and again, Joey brought him trays of food, books to read, liquor to drink and obnoxiously, DVDs to watch…but the live feed to Simon’s room was nonexistent, no matter what buttons Daryl pushed on the television. 

“I don’t want to fucking watch ‘Top Gun’!” Daryl had snapped, “I want to see her! What’s happening to her? What’s happening?”

Joey had only laughed, and Daryl knew Negan would be doing the exact same thing. He was playing a game of cat-and-mouse, and Daryl was falling directly into his trap. Yet he could find no peace of mind. He wanted to trust Francie, he did trust Francie, but it was not completely honest to say that only fear for her safety and her mental well-being was keeping him up at night. He was also eaten alive with jealousy at the thought of her being in such close quarters with another man, at the thought of Simon looking at her, touching her, listening to her, comforting her…fucking her. Because, yeah, after enough sleepless nights, Daryl’s mind went there. 

Again and again and again. 

Negan fucked with him in other ways too. One morning Joey had brought him a sweater that he tossed on the bed, only saying “Negan said this is for you.” After he had left the room, and Daryl had held it up and examined it, he easily recognized it was Francie’s…not only by sight, but by touch, by smell. It felt like her. He remembered holding her close when she was wearing this very sweater, he remembered the feel of it under his fingers, the warmth of her inside of it when she was in his embrace. 

And, more than that, he remembered the smell. Her perfume, her shampoo, or just the natural scent of her skin, he didn’t know, but it was so uniquely Francie, muted but sweet and musky at the same time. He didn’t understand why Negan had sent it to him at first. He searched the sweater for any clue (A hole? A speck of blood? A hidden message?) but it only took a matter of hours for him to realize the true reason: 

The smell of her pervaded the room now, just as the thought of her pervaded his mind. It was a light, almost unnoticeable scent, likely one that would be missed by anyone else, but to Daryl, a born hunter, with keenly trained senses, the presence of the sweater was a constant reminder of her physical presence…and the lack of it. He would know the scent anywhere. It felt tattooed under his skin. And now, it taunted him. Tormented him. If he could have thrown it away, he would have. Burned it. Shredded it. He would have. 

Or so he told himself. But as it was, he kept the sweater beside him at all times, feeling that it was at once his curse and his cure. 

After countless days of no Francie and no feed from Simon’s room, Negan upped the ante. For snippets, here and there throughout the day, the camera would turn on and off. This left Daryl in a constant state of anticipation and anxiety, afraid to take his eyes off the screen even while he was eating or changing clothes or lighting a cigarette. 

Sometimes the room was empty. When it was, evidence of her was still apparent. A book half-opened on the bed. A wine glass with a lipstick stain on the table. A discarded pair of boots on the floor. 

Other times, he got to see her, but only in passing, only for a moment at a time. It was as if Negan was finding a way to curate the most painful moments for Daryl to watch, and then giving him just a taste—before shutting the camera off once again without warning: 

Francie laughing with Simon as she pointed out something in a book for him to read. Francie changing in the bathroom without closing the door all the way, as if she was no longer scared of Simon and his intentions. Francie being awoken gently by Simon with a cup of coffee and an affectionate shoulder squeeze.

But Negan wasn’t as clever as he imagined, not by half. There were little things, Francie-isms, things only someone who knew her and loved her would notice, things which therefore missed Negan’s harsh eye, and brought Daryl comfort. 

Little things. He noticed that his old t-shirt was now being used as a pillowcase in bed beside Francie, and that she curled around it at night. He noticed that her journal was filling up more day by day, and that someone had been marking down days on the wall calendar with a purple sharpie. He noticed that there were times when Simon would talk and talk and talk, and Francie’s eyes would fade—she was there, but she wasn’t listening, not at all, and yet Simon was none the wiser because her smile was still fixed and pleasant. 

And most of all, he noticed that when she woke in the morning, her eyes had little dark half-moon circles under them from lack of sleep. He never got to hear her have nightmares anymore—Negan rarely left the camera on overnight now—but it was evident she was not sleeping well. She was going through the motions, he told himself, but her body couldn’t lie, not to him. She was getting thinner, too, losing the weight she had put on during her time with him. 

But Simon didn’t seem to notice. Daryl couldn’t blame him, as Francie was going to some effort to keep up appearances. Each day her makeup kept getting darker and her hair more intricate and her clothes more suggestive. It was like she was playing a character, or maybe, he reasoned, it was simply from spending most of her time around Negan’s wives. On occasion, he would hear her mention a wife’s name, and it was evident from Francie’s tone that she was on close terms with these new women. No doubt they supplied her with the clothing and the hair and makeup. 

It surprised him to hear speak so positively about these women, until one afternoon, Daryl had occasion to hear Francie chide Simon for making a disparaging remark about a wife named Nicole. 

“God, I get sick of her bitching. She lays on her ass all day and still finds reason to complain,” swore Simon. 

“It’s a valid complaint,” said Francie, a bit heatedly. “He has no right to treat them like that.” 

“They signed up for it!” 

“The hell they did,” hissed Francie. “He says he’s against rape, but coercion is STILL rape. Giving someone no other choice, no other REAL choice, is rape, Simon. He IS a rapist.” 

And then it was clear to Daryl. Of course she would feel a deep kinship with these women. He remembered how haunted she had been by the woman at the hotel, how affected she had been at the sight of another person who had endured a similar nightmare to her own. 

Simon, on the other hand, didn’t seem to pick up on this. 

“Well, anytime they want to go clean up walker guts, they can,” he said. “No one is holding a gun to their heads.” 

“Not literally, but figuratively, yes he is!” snapped Francie. “Nicole is barely 18 years old! That’s a child! That’s SICK!” 

Simon sighed and put his hands up. “Okay, sweetheart, you win. You’re right, you’re right.” 

Francie stared at him blankly. It was evident he was just saying what he knew she wanted to hear. 

Except that wasn’t what she wanted to hear, thought Daryl, he knew what she wanted to hear. And more to the point, he knew what he wanted to say. Not that she was ‘right,’ but that her pain was seen. That her empathy was valued, that her instinct to protect another vulnerable woman was honorable, but more than that, that it was proof that her own horrific experiences had not weakened or ruined her, but only made her stronger and purer. As though her brush with hell had sanctified her, rather than tainted her. 

As foolish as it seemed, Daryl stared at the television and telepathically tried to transmit some of these thoughts to Simon. Jealous as he may be, he wouldn’t deny Francie comfort, ever, and it deeply affected him to see that vacant, hurting look on her face. 

But Simon only continued shuffling the deck of cards in his hands, just occasionally glancing over at Francie who was now completely quiet and subdued as she painted her fingernails a deeper shade of blood red. 

He took her silence as happiness, as Daryl noticed he so often did. And he talked aimlessly, good-naturedly, the matter settled as far as he was concerned. Francie smiled at his jokes and nodded when he asked a question, and this was enough to satisfy Simon, or so it seemed. 

And perhaps to Daryl that was the most appalling part of all. She was giving him only half of herself, only a façade, and he was too self-absorbed or too unobservant to notice. He looked at the smiling image of a perfectly poised and put-together Francie, and he thought it was real thing. 

And yet he had the gall to say he loved her. To say he loved her even as he was completely unaware of the fact that he didn’t know her at all, even as he was completely unaware that she was a million miles away and that her gaze was locked, as ever, on the calendar on the wall. 

For the first time in many days, Daryl felt peaceful. He knew his Francie hadn’t changed, hadn’t altered, hadn’t been removed from him at all. 

He didn’t know what would happen next. But for now, knowing that she was still his Francie—no, knowing that she was still her own FRANCIE entirely, her own complete and capable being—was enough.


	50. thus with a kiss I die

Daryl was roughly awoken by the sound of his door slamming open and the chains falling onto the ground. In the dark, several arms came to grab him, and he fought enraged, blindly, at first not sure if they were walkers or people. 

But, then the arms lifted him out of bed and started dragging him, and he made out voices in the dark. 

“Upstairs to the doc’s,” said one. 

“Heavy fucker,” complained the other, as they half-pulled him along the hallway. 

“Hurry up, now,” said another voice, giving Daryl a firm kick to the back of the legs and making him stumble forward. 

As he came to awareness, he realized he was being dragged by several men upstairs to a new area of the Sanctuary. It looked like a medical ward. 

He instantly was on high alert. 

Yanking him into an empty room, the men pushed him down on a hospital bed. Daryl began to swing and curse, while they tried to pin down his legs and force him to lay down. 

Suddenly a laugh boomed out. 

“Drop the act, Ponyboy,” said Negan’s familiar voice. “Lay down and take your medicine like a good boy.” 

And then he felt the prick of a syringe in his bicep, a moment of queasiness and derealization, and everything went black. 

********************************************************************************************************

When Daryl woke up, he felt like his mouth was stuffed with cotton. His head pounded and he had the desperate urge to barf. Groaning, he shifted on the mattress beneath him and blinked his eyes open. His eyes adjusted to the room. He was in the dorm room of the Sanctuary. Everything appeared just as it had been before he fell asleep. He sat up and looked around. The door was shut. He blearily struggled out of bed, nausea rocking his belly, and he checked the knob. Locked tight, as expected. 

Had he dreamed the whole thing? But just as he was questioning his memory, the television switched on. 

Before he saw the screen light up, he heard it. The sound of a woman keening. The shattered, disintegrated sound of grief come to life, the unmistakable cry of a human soul as it fell into utter nullification. 

Every cell in his body went to ice. He hadn’t heard a sound like that since Carol saw Sophia come out of the barn. He turned to the television slowly, his survival instinct wanting to prevent him from doing so, wanting to prevent him from seeing whatever horror would be splashed across the screen. 

But there was only Francie. Francie alone. She wasn’t hurt. Not physically. Not that he could tell. But she was on the floor, on her hands and knees, in a fetal position, rocking back and forth as she birthed misery with each new desolate, betrayed cry. 

“What’s wrong, baby girl? What’s wrong?” Daryl said aloud in terror, his hands reaching helplessly out to the screen. His voice was hoarse from lack of use, and his eyes skittered across the image on the television as he desperately tried to find some clue for her heartbreak in the background of Simon’s room. 

“Daryl, Daryl, Daryl, DARYL!” Francie screamed, ripping her hair out of her head with tight, wild fists, until finally footsteps entered the room and suddenly, she was being lifted into Simon’s lap. 

“He’s gone, honey, he’s gone,” said Simon, voice low and sad. “He’s gone.” 

Francie pounded on Simon’s chest as he held her in place, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head as he murmured soothing words to her, words which Daryl couldn’t hear. 

“This is all my fault,” cried Francie. “He’s dead because of me. Because of me. Because of me. Because of me.” 

Daryl’s mind swirled. Suddenly he remembered the night before, being dragged to the hospital ward, the mysterious prick of the syringe. Blacking out. Blacking out…

He let out a guttural moan and put his head in his hands. 

The television went off. Before Daryl could protest, there was a light tapping on the door. The sound of…a bat wrapped in wire. Daryl leaped towards the door as the chains fall off, but Negan expected this, and once again, several Saviors entered the room and held his arms and legs in place. 

Someone swung hard and punched him several times in the face and gut, finally subduing him. 

Slumped on the ground, blood running into his eye, he looked up at Negan. 

“You ever read ‘Romeo and Juliet’?” asked Negan, sitting down on Daryl’s bed and pouring himself a glass of Jack Daniels, one of the many gifts of liquor he had sent to Daryl over the last several days. 

Daryl ignored him. “The FUCK DID YOU DO—

“What am I fucking asking? White trash doesn’t read Shakespeare,” laughed Negan. “But, in my line of work, I saw a LOT of performances of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ over the years. And, you know, I always liked the end the best…the part where Juliet thinks Romeo is dead…”

Daryl stared up at him in disbelief, blinking. 

“You know, a lot of eggheads have spent a lot of FUCKing time debating what Juliet might have drank in order to appear dead,” said Negan, swirling the amber liquid in his glass and smiling. “Lots of theories. Opium poppy? Good old cannabis? Or maybe…chloral hydrate?” 

Daryl put his head back in his hands and sunk deeper on his knees. 

“Any side effects this morning? I went with chloral hydrate, hope you don’t mind. It can cause some nausea or headaches. You fucking feeling okay, Dar-Bear?” All the fight left Daryl’s body. He could see nothing but Francie ruined on the floor, could hear nothing but her broken cries in his head. 

“Don’t do this to her,” he choked out. “You win, okay? You win. Don’t do this to her.”

Negan laughed. “SHIT! I fucking LOVE this SHIT!”

Daryl twisted his large hands ineffectually in his lap. He should have felt ashamed to be on his knees like this, begging Negan in this manner, but right now, none of that mattered. 

“Please. Please.” 

Negan only laughed again. “God, you are making me so HARD right now. And you know what the best part of it is?” 

Daryl stared at him motionlessly. 

“She thought she was going home. I told her I was taking her to see you. And then, when she got there, you were dead…”

Here, Negan started cracking up again. 

“We told her you fell off the roof and broke your neck trying to get in her and save her,” said Negan. “Told her it was all her fault.” 

Daryl shut his eyes and nausea exploded inside of him again.

“That fucking reminds me. Joey! Go get this asswipe something to wash his face,” Negan smiled benevolently down at Daryl. “Had to make it look real, sorry. I told her that one of my guards had to put a bullet in your head before you turned.” 

Daryl’s fingers went up to his head. Sure enough, he felt something odd on his fingers, a sticky, tacky substance that looked red when he pulled his hand away. 

“Of course, Simon took some fuckin’ convincing…that motherfucker wanted to do it his own way, thought he could win her over on his own,” said Negan, polishing off the rest of his glass in one sip. “But, he came around when he realized the 2 weeks were almost up and she was still no closer to slobbing on his knob.” 

Negan rose and stretched.

“Damn, I’m BEAT!” He said. “It’s been a long ass night. Need to go hit the hay.” 

Daryl reached forward and grabbed for him as he walked by. “I’m begging you,” he pleaded. “She’s been through enough. This will kill her.” 

Negan laughed and shook Daryl’s hands off his forearm. “Hey, whatever happens, happens. Maybe she’ll go full-Juliet and kill herself. Maybe she’ll accept her new daddy and ride that mustache off into the sunset. Either way, I’m happy.” 

Daryl leapt on his feet and tried to grab for Negan, but once again found himself easily restrained by the Saviors. 

“She’ll find out I’m alive,” he growled. “Your plan won’t work forever.” 

“The fuck-makes-you-think-you’re-going-to-be-alive-much-longer?” asked Negan, getting close to Daryl’s face and poking him in the chest with the emphasis of each word.

Daryl lunged forward again, uselessly. 

“I just want to keep you alive to torment you a bit longer,” smiled Negan. “Just so you can enjoy the utter poetry of this fuckin’ plan of mine. Hell, I’m interested in the outcome too. Maybe I can even convince her to become wife number six after Simon is done running through her guts.” 

Daryl hauled his head back and spit directly in Negan’s face. Negan only lifted a finger, and then suddenly the men were all on top of him, fists and feet everywhere, kicking, pummeling, punching, beating him…he thought of the kitten he found being tortured to death in the woods, being beaten by the neighborhood boys as her soft, dying body lay in his hands, and then it all went black.


	51. so disappointed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE stopppppp leaving me comments complaining about the pace/plot. It has fucking killed my creativity the last several days. I think I will take a break from reading the comments for a while, so if I don't reply to you, that's why. I know things might not happen the way *you* want in the time frame you want, but this is my story, FOR me/working on my craft, not for anyone else...I love it if you enjoy it/ and it is cool if you DON'T, but it's kind of entitled to come to fanfic with any expecations or demands on the writer. Damn, be glad I even spell check this shit! ***
> 
> \-- precious whiny baby author tantrum over--
> 
> **this is not geared to any ONE person, but i've had several anon comments since way back in like chapter 10 asking why they aren't fucking yet, basically, and it's honestly just creativity-kryptonite to see comments like that, when you're working hard and have a specific plot unfolding ***

Daryl hung like vapor on the floor. 

His eyes were burning and raw from the effort of staying open for days on end. Since Negan had left him, he only got one meal a day, the Sanctuary Special: Dog food sandwiches. Not that it mattered, not that he had an appetite. He had two water bottles left. He wondered vaguely if they were going to bring him more. He ached all over from his beating, and he could tell he had at least one broken rib. But he never moved from the floor, never sought the comfort of the soft mattress to cushion his wounds. 

The television stayed on all the time. Francie stayed on all the time. Several times Simon had left her alone. Her arms and legs bore the proof of this. She cut, clawed, scratched, burned herself, until finally he arranged babysitters anytime he had to go somewhere. Women sat with her. Sometimes women Daryl recognized. Saviors. Arat. Sometimes one of Negan’s wives. But they were imperfect watchmen, easily distracted and fooled. And she found a way. She always found a way. 

“Kitten, not again,” Simon would moan, as he found more evidence of self-harm on her as he helped her change her clothes. “This one is so deep, sweetheart. Aw, damn. Hold still.” 

They tried to spoon-feed her. They brushed her hair. They washed her face. Wiped away the tears and wiped away from the blood from her torn-up arms. They forced her into the bathroom where she emerged with wet hair and red eyes. They begged her to stop hurting herself. They begged her to forgive herself. 

“I’ll get you whatever you want, sweet girl,” Simon begged. “Just tell me. Anything. I’ll get you anything.” 

She didn’t reply. 

At night, she sat up in bed. When she fell asleep, she would awake with a start after 20 minutes or so, and always, always would start screaming. Begging for Daryl. Begging and begging and hitting Simon and biting him. She threw a bookend through the window one night, glass shattering down like snow. After that, Simon slept beside her, holding her in his arms, holding her twisting, flailing body until she slumped exhausted against his chest. 

Then they started giving her medicine. Francie didn’t ask what it was, and no one mentioned it on camera, so Daryl could only guess it was a sedative. After that, she stopped screaming and fighting. Instead, she slept all day, and quietly sobbed. She ate when they insisted, she bathed when the wives dragged her in the bathroom, she submitted to Simon’s hands on her, to his embraces, but her eyes were like cloudy sea-glass. She was not there. She was not there.

One night when she was in this catatonic state, Simon came in the room and ordered Negan’s wife Nicole out. He was clearly drunk, and his mood was highly-charged, nearly crackling off the screen. 

Francie didn’t notice. She continued laying on her side, staring out the window which was now covered with a piece of cardboard. 

Simon pulled the blankets off her legs, spread his body on top of hers and kissed her on the mouth. She didn’t move. 

He kissed her deeply again, this time moving down her body, down her neck, her chest, grasping her tits in his hands over her white tank-top and squeezing. Still, she didn’t move. 

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” he whispered, and he began to kiss and nuzzle her neck as his hand went down to her panties and cupped her cunt. 

Daryl could hear a roaring sound of silence in his ears. 

Simon slipped her panties to the side and Daryl watched as he stroked her bare pussy with his long fingers, then dipped one between her soft labia. 

It was as if a bomb went off. The hazy look in her eyes snapped away and she started clawing and fighting at Simon, ripping at his hair and tearing at his face. 

“Let me make you feel good, let me make you feel good.” 

She bit him hard, on the side of the face. 

He shouted in irritation and pain, but pulled away from her. His head hung down as he sat on the bed across from her. 

“Touch me again and I’ll kill you,” she said. “I’ll kill you and I’ll fucking love every minute of it.”

Simon was silent for a moment. 

“I’m not letting you go,” he said, and his voice was cold and hard. “You’re mine.” 

“I’m his.” 

“He’s DEAD, you dumb bitch!” snapped Simon abruptly. 

Francie reeled back as if he hit her. She shook her head in dismay, her mouth partially open. She clutched the blanket to her tightly. 

Simon put his head in his hands. 

“I’m a mean drunk, kitten,” he said miserably. "The guys, they been getting me riled up...and Negan, Negan said...if you don't come around soon, start actin' right..." 

She glared at him. "What?" 

"He's getting sick of your shit, baby," snapped Simon. "You know how much time and meds we've wasted on you?" 

“I don't care," she said in a singsong voice. "I don't care. " 

"You better start caring," said Simon. "Or you'll wind up back in the cells." 

She laughed loudly. "Oh my god, I'm already there. You stupid fool. I'm already there." 

Her voice sounded unhinged, verging on madness. 

He stared at her. No one spoke. 

“Take your medicine,” he said, finally, handing her the pill bottle by her bedside. “Let’s just sleep it off.” 

She held out her hand. 

Tears rolled down her cheeks. 

“I want my Daryl, I want my Daryl, I want my Daryl, I want my Daryl,” she sobbed. 

Simon sighed and looked to the ceiling. 

“It’s a two-pill kind of night,” he said, sorrowfully. “Come on, drink this water. You poor little girl. The fuck did I do to you?” 

She drank the water and swallowed two pills with it. 

Many minutes passed. Simon pulled off his t-shirt, which was clinging to him with sweat even though the room was cold enough for ice to be on the window. He shut the light off, leaving only the moonlight streaming inside for them to see by. She never had nightmares anymore. The pills kept her completely silent and still, like a doll in the bed rather than a living woman. 

“Sometimes I think…he’s here with me,” she said, her words thick and slow, the pills already taking an impact. “I feel him watching me. I feel him watching over me.” 

Simon shifted in bed beside her. 

“It’s your mind playing tricks on you,” he said, and if his voice sounded guilty, only Daryl could tell. 

“I hope so,” she said, “I wouldn’t want him to see me like this. He would be so disappointed in me.” 

Daryl’s heart ached. 

“Never, girl,” he breathed, but no one heard.


	52. making me feel shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW, CW; Self-harm

“I want Negan,” she said, again. 

Simon and Daryl both continued to stare at her dumbfounded. She was sitting up in bed with the clear winter sky lighting up the room. She was carefully braiding her hair, the first time since Daryl’s ‘death’ that she had shown any awareness or care for her grooming. She had also eaten half a piece of toast without argument. It had been a good sign, a really good sign, but now, without warning, she was insisting on seeing Negan. 

Simon ran his hands through his hair with a growl. 

“Is this because of last night? I promise, kitten, I won’t ever do something like that again,” he swore. “I was drunk. I was desperate. I thought I could make you forget…if only for a minute, I thought I could make you forget.” 

“I don’t care about that,” she said coldly. “I don’t care about anything.” 

He stared at her, the same worried, helpless look on his face. 

“Daryl liked my hair braided. He said that. Once he said that…only I can’t quite remember…Was it…before the snow?” she intoned softly. “Simon, hand me that.” 

Simon stared at her, then looked down where she was pointing. He handed her the hairtie. She chattered on calmly, nonsensically, sometimes making some a small bit of sense, sometimes none at all. But she seemed…content, almost. Or purposeful. Or something in between. 

It scared Daryl. It seemed to scare Simon too. 

An hour or so later, Negan entered the room. Simon was long gone, having left once Francie began quoting poetry and completely ignoring any attempts at real conversation. 

After his exit, Francie began to apply makeup, while Daryl’s panic grew and grew. He started to fear this new determined edge to her behavior. He thought of the dead men in the woods. Crazy like a fox, Merle used to say. Crazy like a fox.

“Do my ears deceive me?” Negan asked, as he walked into the room unannounced, swaggering in his usual fashion with Lucille perched on his shoulder, wearing his uniform of a crisp white t-shirt and blue jeans. “Did you really request yours truly?” 

She swiveled to look at him from across the room, where she was finishing zipping up a velvet, rose-colored minidress. 

“Damn, girl,” he said, letting out an impressed sigh. “You look good as hell for me right now. Glad to see you dropped the fuckin’ Sylvia Plath act and found your sexy again.” 

She smiled a little, and looked up at him with what could only be described as a come-hither expression.

Negan frowned. 

“The fuck is the matter with you? Now you’re making me all kinds of suspicious.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked, a little too innocently. Daryl cringed a little. Her poker face was, as always, terrible. 

“What do I mean, poptart?” he asked, crossing the room and looming over with an intense look in his sharp brown eyes. “I mean, why the fuck do I have your boyfriend hissing and spitting in my office like a pissed-off tomcat telling me that you want to see YOURS TRULY? And why are you dolled up like one of my slutty wives?” 

He put his hands on her biceps and tugged her a little closer to him. Her chest collided with his. She bit her lower lip and her cheeks flushed. 

“Why is that, baby?” he asked, his voice husky. “You want a little Negan in your life?” 

She gave only the briefest of nods, the smallest hint of an assent. 

“Now, I gotta wonder, though,” he said, taking one hand of off her bicep and delicately looping it around her neck, caressing the soft skin there with his fingers. “Why might that be?” 

Her eyes cast downward, effectively hiding her gaze while making the most of her long, dark lashes. Maybe she’s not so bad at this after all, thought Daryl, his panic returning even stronger. 

“What a fuckin’ pretty picture you make,” Negan murmured. “You feel how happy I am right now?” 

Her blush deepened. 

“But honey, as rock-hard as I am,” he said. “I simply don’t fucking trust you.”

Suddenly his hand around her neck tightened. She gasped and clutched onto his chest for support as the air left her. 

Tears rolled down her cheeks. He held her like that a for a moment, nearly suspended in air as she raised up to her tippy-toes to gasp as much air as possible. He let her go. 

But just as abruptly he twisted her body around so that her back was flush against his chest, one arm wrapped above her breasts and the other around her waist. She grasped at his upper arm and twisted her head back to look up at him. 

“You hate me ‘cause your man is dead, baby?” he whispered into her ear. “You hate me for that?” 

She only stared at him helplessly, more tears wetting her face. 

“I didn’t kill him, though,” he said, bending down to gently stroke a tear off her cheekbone. “You know that, right? You did.” 

She sobbed. 

“You did,” he murmured, licking away a tear, as she shook helplessly against him. 

“I know,” she said miserably, submissively. 

“Damn it,” he said, pulling back and gazing down at her, his eyes raking up and down her lost, hurting expression. “Why the fuck is this turning me on so bad? I’m starting to see what Simon and Daryl see in you…this broken china doll thing is making me FEEL some shit. And I don’t just mean in my no-no places.” 

She closed her eyes, and ever-so-slightly let her head fall backwards onto his chest. 

Negan let out a surprised huff, but then cringed away from her like she was strapped with explosives. 

He released Francie and sank down onto her bed, rubbing his hand on his stubbled jaw as he gazed at her. 

“You’re up to something,” he said. “You think if you put on a pretty dress and make eyes at me, I’m gonna let you go?” 

She tilted her head in confusion. “Go where?” 

He laughed. “Good point. Although, I’d be willing to bet Rick the Prick would make room in his little townhouse for a sweet piece of ass like you.” 

She rocked back and forth on her toes. 

“You even listening to me? Your eyes are glassy as shit,” said Negan, standing now to look deeper at her. “How much fucking Seroquel is he giving you?” 

Again, she just stared at him silently. 

“Why did you ask me to come here?” he asked, holding her by the biceps again, but not roughly, and in fact, almost tenderly. Daryl didn’t know which was worse. 

She laughed. “An angel told me to. An angel named Merle.”

Daryl almost choked, stumbling forward a little as his brows knitted tightly together. Jesus Christ, he swore to himself, what was she TALKING about?! 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Negan said, sighing and looking up to the heavens. “This is NOT the shit I signed up for when I told Simon he could have a wife.” 

Suddenly, he looked down at his hands, and the sleeves of her dress. “And the FUCK? Is This? Shit?” 

There was blood lightly streaked on his palms. 

“Sorry,” she breathed. 

“Let me see,” he said, putting a finger lightly on her lips and stopping her from talking any further. Her arms fell limply to her sides. 

He tried to tug up one of the sleeves, but the dress was too form-fitting. 

She looked up at him. He sighed in exasperation and lifted a t-shirt off the bed. 

“Change,” he ordered. “I’ll turn around.” 

He did as he promised, but Daryl still felt sick watching her strip with Negan in the room. Shivering, she slipped on the t-shirt. It was Simon’s and hit her just barely mid-thigh. 

“Decent?” he asked. 

She gave a small “Yes.” 

“Oh, for fucking Christ’s shitting ass sake!” hissed Negan as he turned around and took in the view. Even Daryl, who had SEEN all the scars happen was shocked at the sight of each mark in full display. She looked like she had been mauled by a wildcat. “Baby, what the FUCK did you do this beautiful body? SHIT! It’s like seeing a Porsche with key scratches.”

She frowned. “That’s a car, right?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Sit down, sit DOWN,” he snapped. “Why didn’t Simon tell me about this?” 

She sat down obediently, trying to keep the T-shirt from riding up completely but to no avail. She shivered. 

He put a blanket over her legs. She raised her eyebrows. 

“I’m not a monster, sweetheart,” he said giving her a warm, unnerving grin as he tsked at her. “Now, where’s the first aid kit?” 

“He already did that. He did. He did,” she said. “It’s fine.” 

Negan ignored her and started rooting around the various bottles on Simon’s dresser, finally locating the Bacitracin. 

“I don’t like that stuff. It smells,” she complained, sounding childlike. “It reminds me of the hospital. Of when my mom had cancer.” 

He paused for a moment in mid-air, the cotton ball wet with the ointment, hovering inches from her torn flesh. 

“Hold still. This might sting a little,” he finally said. 

She didn’t flinch. He finished the job quickly, holding her lightly as he cleaned and bandaged the opened wounds, not even lingering on her thighs. Daryl was equal parts confused and relieved. 

“Thank you, Negan,” she murmured, reaching out and brushing her fingers lightly on his forearm. Both men froze. 

“How fucking stupid do you think I am?” Negan asked finally. “You think I can’t see your stupid plan from a mile away?” 

She shook her head. “I don’t have a plan.” 

“Yeah?” he asked. “You just put on a slutty little dress and silk panties for no fuckin’ reason first thing this morning?” 

She sighed. “They’re lace, actually.” 

He abruptly shoved her back on the bed, so that she was forced into a reclining position with him on top of her, straddling her small frame as her legs kicked uselessly beneath them. 

“You kill me, you so much as hurt one tiny hair on my GIANT cock, you wouldn’t make it two steps out of the front gates,” he growled, grabbing her chin roughly in his hand. 

She cried out in pain and tried to twist her head away, bucking her hips as her shirt rolled up to reveal her belly.

“But you know that, don’t you?” he asked, relaxing his grip but not letting her go. “You know it would be a death sentence. And not a quick, painless one either.” 

“I know,” she said, locking her eyes onto his. “I don’t care.” 

He stared at her for a second, his dark eyes unreadable. 

“See?” he said. “There you go again. Making me feel shit.” 

He let her go, but he continued to straddle her. She gasped out in relief and grabbed for her jaw. His fingermarks left red spots which Daryl knew would turn to bruises from the pained way she stroked her face. He felt sick with despair. Never did he think he would beg for Simon to come back and take his girl, but he felt like he would have walked barefoot across hot coals for that very purpose, so long as it would keep Negan away from her. 

Negan finally rose. 

He looked down at Francie, who looked a million miles away even as she rubbed her aching jaw. 

“Get up,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”


	53. He calls her Lucy

It was several days before Daryl saw anyone other than Fat Joey or Dwight. He was no longer getting the Hollywood celebrity treatment, but most of his most basic needs were met. Yet his real need, his most pressing need of all—his need to know that Francie was safe—went ignored. 

He spent the days in a tormented haze, alternating between staring into space and moments of frenetic action, in which he did pushups, ab crunches, jumping jacks, not stopping until his body was soaked with sweat and his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. 

He was in the middle of this fitness regime when the chains crashed outside the door. He looked up and expected to see Dwight enter with dinner, but was floored to instead see Simon. 

Simon lingered in the door for a moment, as if assessing the scene, then quickly stepped in and closed the door behind him. 

He was alone. He was alone. Daryl would never get another chance like this again. He leaped to his feet, adrenaline coursing through his veins, but Simon shook his head in exasperation. 

“Don’t bother,” he said, cocking and pointing a gun directly at his face. “Just don’t bother.” 

Daryl looked at him in disgust. Couldn’t even fight like a real man. 

“How is she?” Daryl asked, finally, not able to hold back from begging him from information. “Just tell me how she is.” 

Simon shrugged and laughed a little. 

“Fuck if I know,” he said. “Left me for greener pastures. But you already knew that, right?”

Daryl glared at him. 

“How could you let that happen?” he questioned in disbelief. “You said you loved her. You said you would protect her.” 

Simon sucked his teeth in exasperation. 

“You ain’t a man, you a mouse,” bit out Daryl, looking him up and down in disgust. 

Simon just shook his head. “Look, I don’t have time for this. I shouldn’t even be down here. I’m not supposed to be anywhere near you.” 

“Is she okay?” demanded Daryl, ignoring the gun as he continued to press closer into Simon’s space. 

“She’s fine,” he said, finally, reluctantly. “Physically, anyway.” 

“Where is she?” demanded Daryl. 

“In Negan’s pocket,” he said, eyes flashing with distaste. “He doesn’t make a move without her. Feeds her, even. Keeps her in his lap like she’s a baby doll.” 

Daryl shook his head in confusion. 

“Look, I’m not here for that. That’s in the past now,” said Simon, rubbing his temples as if under extreme pressure. “Bigger fish to fry.” 

Daryl was about to lunge for Simon, gun or no gun, when Simon said, “I’ve been talking to Rick. We’re gonna work something out.” 

Daryl felt his stomach clench in anticipation. “You been working with my people? You expect me to believe that?” 

Simon cocked his head as if he heard something in the hallway. He froze in silence, holding his hand to keep Daryl from talking. 

“I don’t care what you believe, asshole,” he barked quickly, quietly. “But, when the time comes, and it’s GONNA come, be ready to move.” 

Daryl eyed him warily. “Whatever happened to that knee-bending loyalty y’all are so proud of?” 

Simon reddened.

“Yeah,” scoffed Daryl. “Guess that goes out the window when you see a chance to become the Big Man.” 

“I’d watch what you say to me,” said Simon, poking one finger hard in Daryl’s chest. “You might become collateral damage in this battle.” 

“Naw,” said Daryl. “You need me. I can see that. That’s my brother’s gonna have your back. You need help to get the throne. And that means I come home.” 

Simon’s dark brown eyes narrowed. 

“Yeah? You may be right, Dixon,” said Simon. “But he didn’t make no two-for-one deal. Capiche?” 

“I AIN’T leaving here without her.” 

“Good fuckin’ riddance,” said Simon. “Take the slut. I don’t want her now.” 

Now Daryl couldn’t control himself, lighting up and swinging a fist directly into Simon’s jaw. He fell backward, hitting his head on the wall behind him. 

Before Daryl could get in another hit, Simon held the gun back at him. He smiled a little as he rubbed his jaw. 

“Man, you just don’t get it,” he laughed. “You thought she was a little cuckoo for cocoa puffs before? Wait till you fucking see what Negan’s done to her.” 

“When?” demanded Daryl, not taking in his words at all. “When is Rick coming?” 

Simon sighed. “Soon, soon,” he said. “You’re going back to the cells though. Negan told me this morning. He’s ‘bout done with you.” 

Daryl closed his eyes. Back in the cells meant he would be even further from Francie. 

“But it won’t be forever, shit,” said Simon, misunderstanding Daryl’s look of despair. “Your people are coming for you. And I’m coming for Negan.” 

Daryl stared at him, then gave a hard nod. If it was partnership he was asking for, he could have it. He could have anything if it meant a chance to get free, to get Francie free. 

“Just saying,” said Simon. “Word to the wise: If it comes down to it, and you gotta move…just move.” 

“I AIN’T leaving here without her,” Daryl repeated. 

“She’s not Francie anymore,” snapped Simon. “Don’t mess this up for all of us.” 

Daryl opened his mouth to repeat the same phrase, but Simon interrupted: 

“She’s not Francie anymore,” said Simon, shaking his head as he moved towards the door. 

“Then who is she?” asked Daryl desperately, angrily, mind reeling with horrific images. 

“He calls her Lucy.” 

The door closed and Daryl fell to his knees.


	54. all is born again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Heavily implied sexual violence/abuse. 
> 
> please read with self-care in mind. <3 this ridic little story is definitely not worth triggering any traumatic memories.

Simon was right that Negan was sending Daryl underground. He found himself in the cells again before the day was through. 

But that seemed to be all Simon was right about. Weeks passed and Rick never came. Michonne never came. Sasha never came. Maggie never came. He waited, all the time, to hear gunshots, footsteps, yelling—the sounds of battle, the sounds of hope, the sounds of his family coming for him—but they never came. 

He stopped listening. 

One day, weeks later, he heard a woman’s voice whispering outside the door. His body froze in hopeful anticipation, but as the woman kneeled down to look in the keyhole, he could make out that it was not Francie, not one of his people, but one of Negan’s wives. 

“Psst,” she said. “You in there?” 

He grunted, rushing to drag his tired, sore body across the cement floor. 

“Francie,” was all he said, his voice hoarse and raw from disuse and the deep cough which he developed shortly after being back in the damp, dirty basement. 

“Simon said, tonight. When Joey changes posts with Kevin. He’ll leave your door unlocked,” she said. “Go down the stairway to the left. There’s a gun under the boiler. It’s loaded.” 

“But Francie—

She interrupted. “Look, you have to listen to me! I don’t have time! I don’t have time!” 

Her voice sounded frantic, hysterical. 

Daryl growled in irritation. “Finish then!’ 

“Get the gun,” she said, ticking things off her fingers as if to ensure she didn’t forget anything. “Then go down the south wing to the second window in the laundry room. It will be open.” 

“And then what?” he snapped. 

“Rich…Rick will be there,” she said, “Simon said. Someone will be there, anyway. To help you.” 

“I won’t leave without her,” he choked out angrily. 

“He said you would say that,” she complained. “Look, I have to go. I could get killed for this.” 

“I WON’T leave without her,” he said, nearly yelling. 

He heard a slamming sound outside, as if she had hit her hand hard against the door.

“Look, she fucking ironed Nicole’s face yesterday, what the fuck do you think about that?” 

Daryl’s jaw dropped open. 

“Stupid bitch,” she said, and then with a pitter-patter of quick, feminine footsteps, she was gone. 

The walls of his cell spun and spun. 

He felt the urge to puke, but his stomach was empty. 

He had nothing inside of him. Nothing left. 

He closed his eyes. Get it together, Daryl, get it together, he urged himself. 

He wouldn’t leave without her. Whatever she was now, whoever she had become, he wouldn’t leave her here. He would fight with whatever he had left, with however much time he had left on this earth, to keep her safe. 

But for now, he just curled on the ground. And cried. 

____________________________________________________________________________

Daryl didn’t know what he was expecting. He wasn’t expecting it to be easy. But nothing about it was hard. He could have walked right out the second-story window, just like Simon had arranged, without a single person even being aware that he left his cell. 

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. 

He checked the gun to see how many rounds were in the gun Simon left him. He half-expected to find it empty, but the Glock was fully loaded. In the dark of the laundry room, the full moon dripping in through the large glass factory windows, Daryl changed quickly out of the heavy, stained sweatsuit he had been wearing for the last month. From a pile of clean laundry, he pulled a white T-shirt, and quickly slipped it overhead. His eyes lasered onto a cabinet stacked with denim, and he tore through them impatiently, tossing the neatly folded clean pants onto the floor until he found his size. He buttoned on the dark jeans quickly. 

There were no boots to be found, but he found a pair of sneakers that were close enough to his size, and he slid them on with no socks. 

He remembered where Negan’s room was, knew the wing of the factory which he had claimed for his own. He expected to find it heavily guarded, but in the end, there was only one lanky teen boy smoking near the entrance to the hallway. He didn’t see or expect Daryl. 

Something stopped Daryl from strangling him entirely, some force inside of him as the boy hovered there in the air, kicking and flailing his legs as he struggled against the much stronger man uselessly. 

Instead, he dropped him to the ground with a swift, sharp blow to his temple, the butt of his gun driving into the kid’s head like a mallet. He fell unconscious at Daryl’s feet.

Daryl walked silently down the hallway to Negan’s private suite. 

He heard a noise coming from just beyond the door, and he quickly stepped back against the dark wall, standing flat and motionless as the front door flew open. 

Amber, one of Negan’s wives, came teetering out, clearly drunk. She was stumbling on her stilettoes and giggling as she tugged Negan by his belt playfully. 

Daryl’s grip tightened on his gun. He could do it right now. He could kill him right now. Negan would never see it coming. 

But, if a gunshot rang out, he would be swarmed by guards in a second, and he would lose his chance to get to Francie. Simon would have to play the horrified, anguished best friend, and who knows what he might do to save face in front of his people. 

Instead, Daryl stood silent and statue-like as Negan let Amber drag him giggling down the hallway. 

“Daddyyyy,” she said playfully. “Just let me show you.”

Negan looked back his bedroom door with a slight frown.

Even in the dark, Daryl could see the annoyance on Amber’s face. 

“She’s asleep,” she said, sounding a little surly. "Those fucking pills you give her could knock out a horse."

Negan tsked at her. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, precious.” 

Amber pirouetted on her heels a little, sashaying as she pulled him in the direction of what Daryl assumed to be her room. 

“But I want you in my little asshole, Daddy,” she said, and Negan laughed. 

“Well, goddamn,” he said. “I can’t say no to that.” 

But Daryl noticed, even if Amber didn’t, the way Negan looked back obsessively at his own bedroom several more times before she pulled him into her bedroom and shut the door. 

Daryl wasted no time. 

He turned the knob to Negan’s suite, and to his relief, it wasn’t locked. Looking back at the empty hallway one last time, he slipped in and pulled the door shut behind him. 

He walked into a large, open plan living room which had a small kitchen and bathroom. It was nearly identical to Simon’s room, but larger and with better furnishings…and a master bedroom, the door to which was nearly shut.

Daryl moved quickly, pushing open the door, not sure what he would find, not wanting to frighten Francie and cause her to cry out. 

But the bed was empty. And neatly made. Daryl frowned. Then, he heard a small noise which caused him to look to the back corner of the room. 

A closet. Daryl frowned. Without making a sound, he moved to the closet door and peeled it open, just an inch. 

Francie was on the floor, no blanket, no pillow, but deeply asleep on the floor. Her eyes were shut, yet fluttering intensely as if she was having a nightmare. 

She was in nothing but a pair of panties, and there was a collar under her neck. 

For the briefest moment in time, Daryl let the scene occur like a trainwreck before him, glass breaking, and metal crunching, and bones snapping, and red lights moving like asteroids in front of his vision. 

He fell to his knees with a thud, pulling at the chain which was looped through a metal rod on the wall, terrified he wouldn’t be able to undo the lock. But he quickly saw that the collar and leash was nothing more than a glorified dog lead, that Negan clearly did this for more humiliation than utility. He undid the chain from the collar, but he didn’t stop to rip the collar off, as much as his fingers burned with the desire to do so. There was no time. 

She started to stir. Daryl lifted her easily, feeling how cold and clammy her skin was against his warm, sweat-slick body. She moaned in her sleep. Anxiety pulsed like unrelenting waves insides of him. It would be devasting if she woke up now and started screaming. 

He wanted to gag her, no, needed to gag her, but there was no time. No time to do anything but run. 

So instead, he did the next best thing to keep her quiet. “It’s me, girl,” he said softly, soothingly. “Go back to sleep. You’re safe, baby girl.” 

She froze, and his heart nearly stopped, but she then seemed to fall into a contented sleep. 

His feet moved out of the apartment, down the hallway, through the factory, down the stairs, always, always, moving, as if choreographed, as if every move was rehearsed, which of course it was, was all he had thought about for weeks, or was it months? There was moonlight and glass and the smell of laundry detergent, and then the cold night air and Rick’s horrified face…and…

“I lift my eyes and all is born again,” she murmured in his shirt, and

freedom.


	55. the evil that men do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was gone so long. Back on my grind now. If writing medicore fanfic counts as a grind???? LOL.

The dark trees rolled by in a blur, Daryl’s blue eyes cloudy with unshed tears and the sudden impossible weight crushing down on his heart. 

She was here. She was alive. She was in his arms. 

He couldn’t comprehend it. Her unclothed skin was like ice under his rough fingers, but her face was expressionless and soft, as she floated far away from him in some distant dream. 

“You good, man?” Rick asked, his voice tense and his fingers gripped around the steering wheel as he piloted the truck with merciless speed through the night. 

Anyone who didn’t know Rick did might have found the question cold. Brief. Unequal to the weeks of suffering Daryl had just endured. 

But Daryl didn’t find the inquiry wanting. He could feel Rick’s concern rolling off him in waves, feel the kinship and care in his worried expression as he glanced across the truck. Daryl felt Rick’s agitation for his well-being, and was grateful for it, grateful to have a big brother right now. But he didn’t how to make Rick feel better about anything right now. And he didn’t know how to tell him the truth. 

How to tell him what had happened to Francie. How to tell him what Francie had been made to do. How to explain to him that he didn’t know who was lying his arms right now…the woman he loved, or just a shadow, a ravaged husk that had been stripped of everything but pain and fear. 

Daryl shut his eyes and let out a ragged sigh. 

“He had her locked up in the closet, man,” he choked out finally. “I don’t…I don’t…” 

Rick bit his lower lip and looked over at Francie, his eyes not failing to notice the goosebumps over her skin or the weak but persistent trembling that shook her small body.

“She’s cold, man,” Rick said finally, pointing out the obvious. “Needs some damn clothes.”

Daryl cringed at his stupidity. He started to pull off his shirt, but Rick stopped him. 

“Brought some,” he said, pointing to the bag at Daryl’s feet. “Figured…figured he might have her in some little black dress or some shit.” 

Daryl shut his eyes for the briefest second. Trotting her around in a little black dress and stilettoes would have been a welcome exchange compared to whatever twisted, fucked up game Negan had been playing with her. 

Then, he focused. Stop being a fucking pussy, Darlina, said the voice in his head. Fuckin’ girl is half-froze to death and your dumbass is sitting here ‘bout crying and doing jack shit but feeling sorry for yourself. 

Grasping her body so she didn’t slide off his lap (and so Rick didn’t see more of her tits than he already had), Daryl reached down and grabbed the backpack. He found a pair of black fleece leggings and a blue pullover. It was small and soft, and perfect for her. He fought back the lump in his throat. 

“Thanks,” he said to Rick. 

Rick shrugged it away. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t thank me.” 

Daryl gazed up at him questioningly. The guilt on Rick’s face was apparent. He knew Rick was torturing himself over their last argument, not just the black eye and the busted lip, but the sick, sour feeling their words left behind. 

“There’s…underwear and a bra too,” said Rick with a little embarrassment. “Sasha helped pick it all out.” 

Daryl pulled out the items, a black cotton bra and matching panties. Not allowing the moment of awkwardness to linger, he pulled Francie to a higher seated position in his lap. 

Carefully, he looped the straps of the bra around her arms and then reached around to clasp the back snaps. He looked down and saw part of the right cup had folded over, and he reached down to fix it, barely letting his fingers graze her soft breast. Her nipples were hard through the bra. He ached to touch them, to clench her beautiful tits in his hands and just squeeze…sick, fucked up thing to think, he scolded himself, but god damn he missed her so bad and now she was near-naked on top of his hardening cock and the only thing keeping him from getting even more uncomfortably erect was Rick in the driver’s seat and the reality that they were still miles from safety. 

He looked down at her underwear then. The pair Negan had clearly dressed her in made him sick to look at—they were juvenile, almost child-like, in fact Daryl was damn near certain they were children’s underwear. They looked like they had some kind of Disney princesses or something on them. Like Negan had wanted her to look like a little girl. 

Daryl found himself looking over at Rick, who nervously gazed down at Francie and the little princess panties, then back out the window. 

“I won’t look,” said Rick, as if he was reading Daryl’s mind, as if he knew Daryl couldn’t leave her in that underwear, not even if it meant stripping her while she was unconscious. 

Fighting back the rage and nausea in his throat, Daryl leaned her back in his lap so he could shimmy the underwear off her with one hand. 

She made a motion to protest in her sleep, as if he was disturbing her. 

“It’s okay, girl,” Daryl said, his voice sounding angry and not all reassuring to his own ears. But it seemed to work a charm on Francie and she went still and limp against him again. Exhaling, Daryl tugged the panties off the rest of the way. As he looked down, he saw that her cunt was smooth and hairless, and that made him cringe (Did Negan make her?) and become aroused all at once. Still, he easily resisted the urge to reach out and stroke her there, to feel her supple, plump lips, to cup her pussy in his hands and find out if it was as soft and sweet and silky as it looked. He wouldn’t. Not ever. Not till she asked him to. And maybe not even then. Not until he knew she was ready. 

He felt Rick’s eyes on him and he flushed. He fumbled for the black panties Tara provided, and quickly pulled them up her legs, working efficiently but still gazing at her pussy out of his periphery vision. Jesus, Jesus Christ. Weeks of no sexual contact or affection and now this. He felt hard enough to break steel. 

The leggings were next, and then a pair of socks. 

“Boots, too, but guess she don’t need ‘em right now,” said Rick, pointing to a pair of small combat boots on the floor next to Daryl’s feet. 

Daryl grunted in agreement. He could carry her. He would carry her. He would carry her. He would carry her. 

As if sensing his tense thought process, Rick gave him another worried look. 

“You sure you’re okay, man?” 

Daryl shook his head. “Naw, ain’t sure at all.” 

Rick gripped the wheel a little tighter, as if suddenly realizing that he might be on his own if Negan’s men were to attack, as if considering that Daryl might not be up to fighting speed right now. 

“Won’t be sure till I know she’s okay,” Daryl finished. 

“She’s here, you got her,” said Rick reassuringly. “She’s okay.” 

“I don’t know who I got,” said Daryl, defeatedly. 

Rick said nothing. What was there to say, what can be said about the evil that men do? 

Only this: She’s here. And he’s got her. 

And he would carry her.


	56. don't leave her alone

Halfway between the Sanctuary and the Pollock, Rick drove the truck off the expressway and into a small patch of suburbia. 

Daryl looked at him questioningly.

“Figured we should take it slow,” he said. “I got a place ready here. Just in case anyone’s following us. Don’t want to lead them right to the hotel.” 

Daryl chewed his lip doubtfully. He would be more comfortable inside the walls of the hotel, not this suburban street which had been clearly picked over by both the living and the dead. 

“We need to get off the road,” said Rick authoritatively. “Negan’s people are going to be after us, probably hot on us right now. We got to get off the road.” 

Daryl looked over at Rick and then nodded. It felt good to trust him again, he found, good to let him lead. He was tired. He was so tired. 

Rick seemed to understand. 

“Come on, man, I got you,” he said, exiting the truck and holding the door open for Daryl. “Want me to hold—”

He was about to offer to carry Francie, but Daryl’s intense expression silenced him. 

“Okay, never minddd,” Rick said in a light, amused voice. 

He led them into a small, ranch-style blue house. The place had been weathered by time and storms and looters, but the small, white living room had been efficiently tidied up. A sleeping bag was laid in the corner, and kerosene lanterns were set on the coffee table and the faux brick mantle. 

“You guys can take the bedroom,” said Rick. “Brought up some blankets and stuff. There’s food too. And water bottles.” 

Daryl nodded gratefully, following the tilt of Rick’s head to the small master bedroom at the end of the hallway. He carried her easily, despite his tiredness. She felt lighter than he remembered. The bedroom smelled musty, but the bedding looked clean. Daryl recognized it as being from the hotel. 

No sooner had he bent down and eased Francie onto the silver-and-white comforter, but she awoke.

Daryl’s heart stopped. He swallowed a gasp. Francie. Francie. Her eyes were huge and liquid with tears, her lashes blinking and blinking as she looked up at him with a frozen, terrified expression. 

But just as he was about to gather her again into his arms, she smacked him hard against the face. He fell back on his knees, more from the shock of it than the force. His back hit the dresser and knocked a frame to the floor. 

Though the noise barely made a sound on the soft carpet, Rick’s keen senses brought him racing into the room. He rushed to Daryl’s side, bafflement and anger warring on his face as he looked down at the man on the floor. 

“The fuck?” he asked, but Daryl silenced him with a raised hand.

Francie looked around the room in terror, eyes wild as she confusedly tried to place where she was. 

“You! You stay away from me,” she hissed at Daryl, pointing at him fiercely. “I know you’re not real. I know you’re not real.” 

Daryl frowned. He moved a step closer to her, but she screamed, a loud, shrill scream. 

“Shit!” snapped Rick, and he ran over to the bed, roughly grabbing Francie as she tried to pull away from him. “Shut up, shut up!”

He held his large hard tight over her mouth, throwing her down on the mattress and half-straddling her kicking legs. Daryl wanted to intervene, tell him he was being too rough, but he was scared to move, scared if he came any closer it would cause another bout of screaming. 

“Stop! Stop! Sweetheart, stop!” Rick commanded, holding her arms above her head with one hand while the other continued to grip her jaw shut. 

Finally, she stopped flailing and only looked up at him obediently. He looked at her doubtfully, then moved his hand away. 

Her eyes immediately flew to Daryl, as she spun her head in his direction. Instead of fighting Rick, she now cowered against him, clutching his shirt and hiding her face in it. Daryl’s stomach twisted. 

“He’s not real, he’s not real,” she said, “He looks real. But it’s not real.” 

Rick looked at Daryl in total confusion and helplessness. 

“Last time he turned into a centipede. He chased me and chased me till my feet bled.” 

Rick and Daryl looked at each other, then at her. 

“DON’T fall for it,” she whispered to Rick hotly, shaking her head frantically and pulling her legs under Rick’s more completely, as if seeking protection from his body. 

“I never fall for it anymore,” she whispered. “You better not. You better not.” 

Rick sighed in exasperation. “He’s real, damn it. He’s real. See? You can touch him, c’mere—”

As he waved to Daryl, Francie shut her eyes tightly.

“No, please, I hate when he slithers. I hate it when he slithers.” 

Daryl was dumbfounded, beside himself with sorrow and rage. Not rage at Francie, but at Negan, at his people, because whatever was wrong with Francie was a kind of wrong he hadn’t ever seen before. Sure, she had struggled with her mental health before…but she hadn’t ever been…like this. 

Rick looked baffled over at Daryl, clearly unsure how to proceed. Now, even if he wanted to get off Francie, he wouldn’t be able to, not unless he wrenched her off him. 

“What am I supposed to do here, man?” Rick said aloud, finally. 

Daryl shook his head faintly. He wanted Francie to feel safe. To calm down. To come down. Back to reality. His hands trembled. He pushed his hair out of his face. 

“Let me get out of here,” Daryl said. “I’ll stay out in the living room and keep watch.” 

Rick opened his mouth to argue but Francie seemed to alight on this new plan quickly, already starting to look towards the bedroom door hopefully, as if willing Daryl to leave. God damn, that sent a clutching, searing pain in his heart, a pain so deep he couldn’t name it. 

“Vegetable soup cans in the kitchen,” said Rick finally. “And crackers.” 

Daryl nodded. “She needs to eat, too. I’ll bring her something and leave it outside the door, ‘kay?” 

Rick looked conflicted but then nodded, as he looked down at Francie then back at Daryl. 

“Some kind of beef ravioli stuff too,” said Rick, awkwardly reaching down to pull his gun out of his holster and lay it on the nightstand. 

“Naw, she don’t like that,” said Daryl. “Vegetable soup is good.” 

Francie’s eyes flickered to him. For a second, there was a light there, but then she instantly looked enraged. 

“Stop IT,” she said to him. “Stop pretending, I won’t FALL FOR IT again!” 

She looked up at Rick. “This is how he tricks you. But he’s dead. You just have to remember that. He’s dead.” 

Rick opened his mouth to argue. 

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, kindly. “I know you loved him too. But…I loved him MOST and I’m telling you, that’s not him. It took me a while to figure out…but I finally learned. Negan made me learn.” 

Her voice got small, distant. Daryl shut his eyes. He turned around to leave the room. But then, he stopped. 

“Don’t---don’t leave her alone, no matter what,” said Daryl looking intently at Rick. “No matter what she says.” 

Rick nodded. The bedroom door shut.


	57. the closet

Daryl sat motionless on the window-seat until his ass went numb. All night he looked out at the barren, destroyed street, the overgrown lawns and the battered furniture and broken cars in the yards. All night long he listened to Francie’s crying, soft but persistent and raw, and all night long he listened to Rick’s low Southern drawl wheedling her, comforting her, coaxing her. 

Was he laying by her in the bed? Was he holding her? The image of Francie grasping onto Rick was fresh and bleeding in Daryl’s mind. Nothing prepared him for that. All those days, weeks, months yearning for Francie, aching to hold her. He never imagined that she would run from his arms. Run to another man, any man, to get away from him. 

Sometime around early morning light, the crying stopped. He hated the sound of her tears but the silence scared him even more. Rick had reached her. Calmed her down. Rick. He should be grateful. He was grateful. 

Keep telling yourself that, Darlina, scoffed the voice in his head. 

Just then, the bedroom door creaked open, and footsteps shuffled down the hallway. 

Daryl hopped off the window ledge, stomach clenching in anticipation. 

But it was Rick. Just Rick. 

“Tole ya, don’t leave her alone!” he said, pushing past Rick and rushing down the hallway. He pulled the bedroom door open gently, and then peeked in. The bed was empty. He frowned. 

Rick pointed to the door opposite the bed. The closet. Daryl let out a soft exhale and shook his head. Quietly, he stepped across the soft carpet and nudged open the thin wooden door. 

Francie was curled into the back of the closet in a fetal position. She was asleep, but she didn't look peaceful. Her brow was furrowed and her body trembled with a struggling, suffering rhythm. Even with her new warm clothes on, it was cold on the floor. 

“She insisted,” said Rick. “I let her. Didn't know what else to do. She wouldn't take a blanket either. Says...says that's only for good girls." 

Daryl shook his head. He didn't want to know. 

“I gotta talk to you,” said Rick, his tone pleading but powerful. 

“Then talk,” snapped Daryl, even as he felt dread crushing down on him. 

“Here?” 

Daryl walked back to the bedroom door, leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. 

“Can’t leave her alone.” 

“We’ll just be out in the living roo—

“No.” 

Rick gritted his teeth and nodded. 

“Look, brother, Simon told me…He said Francie is pretty fucked up now.” 

Daryl just glared at him. “Yeah, a real unbiased party there.” 

“I know you have no reason to trust him, but he was just trying to explain that…that if we took her back, which I knew you would insist on…that she wouldn’t be like how you remember.” 

Daryl frowned. “Whose fault is that?” 

“It’s not just him,” insisted Rick. “One of Negan’s wives, she’s been wanting to leave him…we promised her a way out, if she could help us get to you. She told me all kinds of things about Negan and his...habits.” 

Daryl frowned. “Like what?"

“She said Negan’s obsessed with your girl. That he calls her Lucy. Like after his bat or something. He treats her like a doll, a little girl or something…even feeds her by hand, holds her in his lap, bathes her..."

Daryl cringed in disgust. 

"...keeps her all drugged up and docile," continued Rick. "Plays mind-games on her. Tells her you're alive. Then you're dead. Then you're alive. Just to fuck with her. Just to see if she's still loyal to you." 

“Why you telling me this, man?” 

“Negan got angry at her this week. For hurting herself. Like cutting herself, you know what I mean—”

“I know,” snapped Daryl. “She hurts herself when she gets upset. What’s your point? What did he do to her?” 

“He told her that she had to iron her best friend’s face. Nicole. His wife. One of his wives, I mean. And if Francie didn’t do it, couldn’t do it…he would shove Nicole…in the fire.” 

Daryl’s head fell against the door frame. 

"The whole community was there. He said she had five minutes to decide. Nicole was begging and pleading her, at first, begging her not to do it...but then..." 

Daryl looked up at Rick. 

"Then....Negan picked her up, and started carrying her to the fire. So she was begging Francie to do it, just do it, to just do it." 

"So she did it," said Daryl flatly, even while feeling a small wave of relief. He knew Francie wouldn't hurt someone without a good reason, especially not in such a sadistic way. "Francie burned her face, but she saved her life." 

“No…she didn’t, not really,” said Rick. “She tried, but…she took too long, couldn’t do it how…how he wanted it done.” 

Daryl’s throat felt raw.

“So he…Negan still killed her? Pushed her in the fire, even after making Francie do that?” 

Rick nodded. 

Daryl angrily wiped away a tear which suddenly appeared on his face. 

“Look, he almost made me…you remember what he made me do to Carl, or what he made me THINK I had to do Carl,” said Rick, voice shaking and intense. “I don’t hold it against her. None of us will. And we don’t even have to tell anyone else. Just leave it behind. Just let it go.” 

“She won’t ever be able to let it go,” said Daryl flatly. 

“It’s just the drugs, man,” said Rick. “Simon said he keeps her doped up, that she was half-comatose most the time. But it will fade.” 

Daryl scoffed angrily. “My brother did ice for fucking 15 years, man,” said Daryl. “You don’t just ‘fade’ off hardcore drugs.” 

He was so angry with himself he could scream. There were several pill bottles on Negan’s nightstand and he had simply ignored them. He should have grabbed them, should have kept some of them…could have helped to take the edge off the withdrawals, or at least helped them to know what drugs Negan had been feeding her. Though, having been around pills and drugs most of his adult life, it was easy to see that it was some combination of sedatives and anti-psychotics. Could guess that her thin grasp on reality wasn’t just because of her trauma, but because Negan was intentionally keeping her vulnerable and child-like with whatever pills he could access. 

“What are we gonna do here, man?” asked Rick. “You gonna go talk to her, or what?” 

Daryl looked worriedly at Rick. 

“She’s scared of me,” he said, barely above a whisper, his voice low and mournful. 

“She was fucking loaded,” said Rick, a little impatiently. “Couldn’t even see her pupils, they were so small. She’s gonna be better when she wakes up, Dar. You gotta trust that.” 

Daryl's eyes clouded over with tears. 

He paused for a minute, hovering in the door frame. 

"Naw, man," he said finally. "I'm gonna go get the truck packed up. Give her some space and more time to rest." 

Rick rubbed his hand on his jaw with a weary sigh. 

"Can you...can you put her in the bed and cover her up? Now that she's asleep?" Daryl asked, his voice sounding small and stupid to his own ears. "Don't like her sleeping on the floor like that. Ain't clean. She...she likes to be clean." 

With that, he stalked back down the hallway, leaving his girl to the care of another man. Again.


	58. with us

The next time Daryl heard footsteps come down the hallway, it was mid-morning. With nothing to do, he ate a breakfast of cold soup, lubricated his crossbow (which Rick was smart enough to bring with him), and bathed in ice-cold water from the garden hose in the backyard (a trick he learned from his days growing up dirt-poor…sometimes even when your water gets shut off for non-payment, you can still find leftover water in your hose outside). 

That left him with little else to do. Rick and Francie were still shut up in the bedroom, so Daryl felt like he might as well scavenge a little. After rooting through the rest of the house and its adjoining garage and finding nothing of real value but a few sweatshirts and a pack of batteries, he decided to hit up the nearby houses.

It was clear even from the outside that other survivors had already stripped the street bare, but Daryl was always good at finding things other people missed. Besides, he needed to do something. Anything. To keep from thinking too much. To keep from picturing Negan feeding Francie like she was a little girl. His little girl. Like she was a doll he could touch and fuck with and…the rage gave him a pounding feeling in his head that reminded him that Francie was going to be dealing with some major withdrawal symptoms pretty damn soon. Since he didn’t know exactly what she had been taking, or for how long, or how much, he had no clue what she was going to be up against coming off the meds, but he had been around Merle long enough to know that coming off prescription drugs was just as hard as coming off street drugs, if not worse. 

So, he set an intention to find Advil or Benadryl, or anything that could help to ease the inevitable headaches and achiness that was sure to find her in the next couple of days. 

He was gone longer than he planned, having gone into a focused, single-minded haze as he always did when he wanted to accomplish something. He was successful too, sort of (a few bottles of expired Tylenol, and a half-empty bottle of hydrocodone, few cans of chicken broth, and a lighter) before he finally decided to give up. 

But when he got back to the house, he was greeted by Rick eating at the kitchen island and looking calm. 

“The fuck, dude?” hissed Daryl, instantly irritated. “Where the fuck is she?” 

“Relax,” said Rick, putting his hands up defensively. “I knocked her out with something Denise gave me, okay?” 

“You fucking what?” 

But as Daryl stormed into the house and got closer to Rick, he saw bleeding, red claw marks all over his neck and face. Daryl’s mouth dropped open slightly, and then he exhaled in frustration. 

“It was just a Klonopin,” said Rick, gently. “Denise told me to give it to her if she got…look, she came at me, she was out of her mind. Worst panic attack I’ve ever seen. Took all I had to calm her down. Damn it, I was scared I was going to break her arms.” 

Daryl pushed around Rick, and walked quickly down the hallway, making sure to keep his heavy boots as quiet as he could. The bedroom door was half-ajar, but looking in, he again saw the bed was empty. 

“Closet,” called out Rick from behind him. 

Again, Daryl sighed, then eased softly into the room. The closet door was open just half an inch, and inside, Daryl could just make out Francie’s dark hair in the darkened corner. He couldn’t see her face, but sensed she was sleeping. 

He turned quietly and joined Rick back in the kitchen. 

“Look, I didn’t force her or nothing,” promised Rick. “She was happy to take it. No problem at all. Negan’s got her eating these things like candy. Denise said it’s gonna take her a while to come off ‘em…especially if he’s been giving her all the shit Simon says he says.” 

Daryl cocked an eyebrow. 

Rick looked a little anxious. “It’s just gonna upset you.”

“Tell me.” 

“Said…said it was more than just the pills…the prescriptions, you know.” 

“Street shit?” Daryl snapped. 

Rick gave a little grimace, then shrugged. “Fuck, I didn’t want to tell you now…didn’t want to unload all this shit on you right away. But…then she went…and kind of lost of it on me, so I had to do what Denise said. Didn’t know what else to do.” 

Daryl was enraged at himself for leaving the house, even though he was well-aware his presence here would have been worse than useless, considering the way Francie felt about him right now. 

“Just tell me what he gave her,” said Daryl, sitting down defeatedly next to Rick at the kitchen island. 

“Shit...” sighed Rick. “Simon said…LSD.” 

“Fucking acid?” snapped Daryl. 

Rick nodded. 

“The fuck…” breathed Daryl in disbelief. He had taken acid himself before, handful of times. Merle told him it would make him feel “one” with the universe, which Daryl knew was just some bullshit he got from the hippie chick he had been fucking at the time. But it had made Daryl feel warm, and bright, sort of…vital, in a way he never experienced before. He used to drop it and go for hikes in the woods…until his last ‘trip,’ when he saw his recently-deceased father following him through the trees in a fucking clown suit. Shit had him fucked up for weeks. He swore he would never trip again, even though Merle found the whole thing hilarious as hell and even dressed up in a clown suit the next Halloween just to fuck with him. 

“The centipede thing…” said Daryl suddenly, Frankie’s freakout from the day before suddenly dawning on him. 

“Yeah,” said Rick. “Makes a whole lot more sense now.” 

“Why—why would he—” 

But even as Daryl said the words aloud, he and Rick both exchanged knowing glances. They knew why. Negan loved to fuck with people’s heads. In fact, the only reason he fucked with people in the physical sense was just to see the emotional fallout, to watch them lose their hope, their humanity, their very identity. To watch the light leave their eyes as he slowly pivoted in a half-circle, picking out which one of them was going to be beat to death in front of their family. 

“She’s so tough,” said Rick. “You know…she…can do that thing, where she just kind of disappears, you know? Goes deep into her mind, where it’s safe. The only other person I ever knew who could do that was this little boy I met when working on the force. He had been trafficked…he…never mind, it’s not important. But, he could do that thing too…where he just folded into himself and became untouchable. You know what I mean?” 

Daryl nodded. He knew, of course he knew. He had seen her do it several times. It was how she had survived this long. 

“That must have drove Negan nuts,” said Rick. “Probably never came up against something like that before.” 

Daryl shut his eyes. Francie. Francie. Wasn’t it bad enough he violated her body and stripped her of her dignity and her freedom, without also invading her mind and destroying her one safe place? 

“She’s so tough, Dar,” Rick repeated. “She’s such a fighter. Hell, look at me.” 

Daryl opened his eyes and took in Rick’s scratched-up face. 

“I mean, what the fuck am I gonna tell Michonne?” Rick teased. “I look like Freddy Kruger got a hold of me. You know she’s only with me for my boyish good looks.” 

Daryl shook his head and gave him a half-smile. 

“We’re gonna take care of her, Dar,” said Rick seriously, gripping his hand across the table suddenly. “We are. She’s safe now. She’s with us now.”

Daryl looked up at him. 

“With us,” Rick clarified, stressing the “us” again. “Ain’t no more question about that.” 

Daryl raised his eyebrows, emotions warring inside of him as he looked doubtfully at Rick. He wanted to believe his words, but… 

“She’s with us,” Rick said with finality. “And we’re gonna take care of her.” 

Daryl didn’t speak for a minute, then simply said, “Thanks, man.” 

And if Rick noticed how his voice broke on the words, he didn’t mention it.


	59. are you?

The Klonopin knocked Francie out for the next few hours. Rick sacked out on the couch to make up for the sleep he lost the night before, but only after he brought Daryl up to speed on everything he had missed since being in the Sanctuary. Rick promised that Denise was fine, albeit a bit colder and less bubbly than she had been before Simon and the other Saviors had hauled her away from Alexandria. 

But Aaron, Aaron was a different story. 

“Never talks,” said Rick. “Maggie took him in at Hilltop. He scavenges all the time, but not for people anymore. Helps with the farming, irrigation techniques or something, I don’t know. But I know she said he’s not well, not really, though he says he is and never lets anyone comfort him or mention Eric’s name at all.”

Daryl nodded. He didn’t need Rick to explain further. If he was Aaron, if it had been Francie who had been killed before his very eyes…shit, he couldn’t follow that train of thought. Not right now. 

Finally, Rick had dozed off, leaving Daryl to keep watch after Daryl insisted over and over again that he wasn’t tired. He was, of course, bone-tired, having not slept a wink at all the night before. But he was way too keyed up to sleep. 

He did the only thing he could do. Went into the master bedroom and set outside the door of the closet. Listened to the quiet, hushed sound of Francie’s deep breathing. It was so mesmerizing, that sound, so sweet and gentle and he could smell her shampoo and she was here and she was safe and…

The next thing he knew, there was something on top of him. 

He blinked his eyes in confusion, struggling to understand what was happening, as he slowly realized that Francie was sitting on top of his lap, her hands gripping tight fistfuls of his shirt. 

“Francie,” he breathed in concern, realizing he must have dozed off and not heard her wake up. Shit, shit, shit. How long had she been up? What if she would have slipped out of the house or gotten hurt or—

But none of that mattered right now. She was straddled on his lap and looking intently at him, her green eyes wide and clear and…so, so scared. 

“Are you? Are you?” she stuttered out finally. 

“Girl,” he said, trying to sound calm even as his heart was skittering away inside of him. 

“Are you real?” she asked again, tears flooding her eyes now. 

“Yes,” he said, wanting to reach up and hold her more than anything, but holding back out of fear of her response. “Yes, girl.” 

“I cleaned up your blood,” she choked out. “I…I…saw where you died, I kissed you goodbye…you were so cold.” 

“Wasn’t real,” said Daryl, his voice uncertain and helpless, wishing he could think of the right words to say to make that aching, lost look in her eyes go away. 

“But this is?” 

“Yeah, girl,” he said, more firmly now. “Yeah.” 

“Take off your shirt,” she said suddenly. 

He frowned a little in confusion, then nodded. Carefully shifting his weight so that he didn’t have to move her out of his lap (wasn’t going to make her move for nothing, not ‘til she wanted to), he awkwardly unbuttoned his flannel without trying to jostle her or touch her in any way. He didn’t know what would happen if he did. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

Finally, he pulled his shirt off. She shocked the hell out of him by suddenly leaning her warm face against his chest as she reached her small hands around his back. As if she knew them by heart, as if she had them committed to something deeper than memory, older than home, her hands traced the scars on his back…her fingers moved in tender but desperate motions as she searched for one scar, then the next, then the next, following their lines as if ensuring nothing was out of place, only stopping when she finally reached the last one, the ‘X’ on his left lower back. 

Only then, only then, did her hands fall to his sides, then her sides, and then she clutched them to her face as she burst into huge, body-wracking sobs. 

He knew it was safe to touch her now. He knew she knew now. 

He pulled her close to his naked chest, his big arms nearly doubling around her small frame as he smashed her as close as he could into his body, feeling her go limp and weak in his grasp. 

“I got you, I got you, girl,” he said, reaching up to wrap her dark hair around his hand and wrist as he held her head against his chest, as he felt her tears run streams down to his belly. “I got you, babygirl. My babygirl. I got you.” 

They sat like for a few minutes, so long he almost wondered if it was possible for a person to become dehydrated from crying too much. 

But, then she pulled away, and he froze, wondering if he had pushed her too suddenly back into her new reality, but she only looked up at him with a glowing, joyous expression. 

Shaking her head in disbelief, she wiped her tears away, a smile breaking like dawn on her face. 

“He said…he said…he said he…he said you…” she said, struggling and looking helpless even through her joy. 

“Don’t matter now,” he said, gently. “We can talk ‘bout it later.” 

“He…he said…he said you died…he told me...he had been filming me with Simon…and you saw it, before you died…and you…hated me for it.” 

He flinched at that as if she had struck him. 

“But you’re alive,” she said in wonderment, her fingers reaching out to trace his chest. 

“I’m alive, girl,” he said. “And I ain’t never, NEVER hated you…can’t believe you’d believe something dumb as that.” 

Now it was her turn to cringe. Instantly, he realized how his words must have sounded to her.

“I—I tried…but he kept giving me these pills…and he would punish me…he…made me so ashamed...I had to call him ‘Daddy’…and the medicine, it made everything…a dream, a nightmare…I tried to hold on…to remember you and…to…but then I just wanted to forget, everything…even you.”

She choked all this out in sobs, finally stopping as she was unable to continue to get words out. He reached out in distress and pulled her back to him, this time shifting her body so that her head was against his chest and both of her legs were to one side. He wrapped a arm around the back of her knees and gripped her into him, the other hand wrapping around the side of her neck and swiping her hair back. 

“Oh, baby,” he said sadly. “Don’t. That ain’t what I meant. I know it ain’t your fault. I ain’t mean it like that.” 

Her face was flushed now, and he could tell it wasn’t just from the crying. Her eyes looked up at him nervously. 

“It ain’t your fault, sweet girl,” he said, stroking a finger against her lower lip and then holding her face in his hands. “You ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of.” 

She shook her head silently. He felt a distance growing between them. The joy which had just been on her face had been replaced by a look of unease and sorrow. 

“But you don’t know…” she said. “You don’t know…” 

He shook his head. “It ain’t your fault, sweet girl. You ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of,” he repeated. 

She looked down, pulling just a bit out of his grasp. 

“Can I have some water, please?” she asked, adding quickly. “If…if you have some for me.” 

He frowned a little. “Course, girl. Got food too. Know you must be starving. Rick said you wouldn’t eat for him.” 

His name made guilt deepen on her face. 

“I’m sorry I hurt your friend,” she said. “Negan says—”

She stopped herself abruptly. 

Daryl felt his stomach drop at the sound of his name. 

“Negan says what?” he asked, trying to keep the coldness out of his voice. 

“Nothing,” she said, barely above a whisper. 

He raised an eyebrow. 

“He says…only naughty little girls scratch. He said if I did it again, it better be while he’s fucking me, or he was going to rip them all off.”

She looked in disbelief as she spoke the words out loud, as if she couldn’t believe she was sharing this with him, but then a small dash of relief appeared on her face. Letting it out helped her, he saw that, even though it felt like fucking poison in his veins. 

He kept his face neutral and his voice calm. 

“That ain’t so,” he said, stroking her hand down her back and trying to sound casual and not murderous, no small feat. “You’re such a good girl. And no one’s ever gonna hurt you again or make you do anything you don’t want to do.” 

She looked down at her hands which were twisting in her lap. The mannerism almost knocked the breath out of him. It was so her, so Francie, something she always did when she was upset or nervous or thinking too hard about something. He couldn’t believe he had forgotten about it. He had only been away from her a month and he had forgotten it.

“Come on,” he said, when he trusted himself to talk again. “Let’s get you some food, okay?” 

She rose to her feet and he followed suit, guiding her out of the bedroom, but not before reaching back to loosely wrap his fingers around her wrist as he led the way.   
Wouldn’t be letting go of her anytime soon.


	60. all the ways

The next hurdle came when Daryl set a bowl of soup in front of her. She had been talking with Rick, asking after Judith and Carl, wondering if Judy had said any new words, when suddenly the bowl of soup in front of her made her go still and blank-faced. 

“Vegetable,” said Rick, reassuringly. “It’s good, really. Ain’t even expired.” 

She was pale and trembling, as if a ghost had just walked in the room. Silently, she nervously watched them both as they sat there uncertainly with their own lunch growing cold in front of them. 

Daryl nudged the spoon a little closer to her hand, while exchanging a confused glance with Rick. 

“Girl?” asked Daryl lowly. “You okay?”

She flicked her eyes to him, then to Rick helplessly. 

“What is it, honey?” asked Rick. 

And then, to Daryl’s shock, she suddenly leaned forward and whispered something in Rick’s ear, while a befuddled, then angered expression grew on Rick’s face. But by the time she had pulled back and returned to her position in her chair, Rick’s face had gone expressionless again. 

“Let’s eat first, Dar,” said Rick. “Then…then she can.”

“The fuck you mean?” asked Daryl in irritation. Shit, he wanted her to feel safe with Rick, but he didn’t want her keeping secrets with him. Especially not when he was totally in the dark right now. 

Francie’s lower lip started trembling. She refused to meet Daryl’s eyes, instead looking desperately over at Rick again. 

“Shit, what the hell is going on?” asked Daryl, angry now, at himself, though he didn’t know why.

Rick looked at the pale, miserable girl beside him. 

“She’s not…she’s not supposed to eat ‘til….” Here Rick struggled with the words, shrugging at Daryl weakly. He continued, “She eats…when we’re finished. And then, we give her…what’s left.” 

“Oh, FUCK that,” snapped Daryl angrily. “Are you fucking serious?” 

Francie recoiled as if he had slapped her. She put her head in her hands. 

“Damn it, Dar,” said Rick quietly, shooting an intense look at him. 

Daryl looked at Rick in disbelief, mouth agape, even as he watched Rick start eating. “EAT” he mouthed at Daryl. Daryl shook his head violently, chewing on his thumbnail, then reached out to put his hand on Francie’s shoulder, only to feel her flinch in terror before looking up at him with petrified, haunted eyes. 

That look broke him. 

He moved his hand away from her and started eating. Silence filled the room, save the clattering of spoons against the dishes. She pushed her bowl away from her determinedly, and then gave Daryl a slip of a smile. 

Despite Daryl’s best efforts, Rick had a head start on him, so he finished first. 

When he did, he again took Daryl by complete surprise when he reached out for Francie’s bowl and started eating that too. 

Daryl’s jaw gaped open. Rick shot him a warning look. Daryl bit his tongue so hard it bled, but he forced himself to pick up his spoon again. He glanced over at Francie. She was peacefully sitting at the table, playing with the fraying edges of her placemat. 

After a few huge bites of Francie’s soup, Rick said to her, authoritatively, “Come here.” 

She smiled gratefully at him. 

But she didn’t reach for the spoon. Instead, Daryl stared stunned as Rick picked up the spoon himself and fed her a bite. 

Daryl gripped onto the edge of the table. The only thing keeping him in his chair was the fact that she ate it…was eating it, every bite he fed her, every new spoonful he offered her. She was accepting it, hungrily and comfortably, as if some man feeding her his leftovers was the most natural thing in the world. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Rick shot him a look that was a mixture of apprehension and warning—as if he was saying “You can beat my ass for this…later.” 

Daryl looked down, then got up as slowly as he could. 

“Need to go outside a minute, have a smoke,” he lied. 

He went outside and threw up till his throat was raw from the effort. And then he sat down with his head in his hands, picturing all the ways he was going to rip Negan’s body apart, all the ways he was going to torture him until the light finally ground out of his eyes.


	61. different kind of fucked up

Night was falling. They had been on the road for a couple of hours, their trip back to the hotel having been severely delayed due to several unforeseen circumstances (downed trees on the winding mountain roads, and a small, roaming herd of walkers that nearly swarmed the car) and one very foreseen circumstance (running out of gas after driving on fumes for 30 minutes). 

The truck stalled to a final stop, Rick steering it to the side of the road with a resigned look on his face. 

It was nearly dark outside. They were not even halfway up the mountain. Daryl’s nerves were taut as a bowstring. He well-remembered the huge herd that Francie and he had just narrowly escaped the last time they were in this region of the base of the mountain, not to mention the fact that they were still worried that Negan and his men might be following them. 

A night outside, especially with an unstable Francie, seemed like a very bad idea indeed, but they had no other option. Not that she had been difficult during the long car ride. Just the opposite…just the opposite, thought Daryl worriedly. 

Francie had always been prone to thoughtful silences, and her spirit was generally watchful and even gentle, but this felt different: She was docile. Governable. Almost…subservient. She reminded Daryl of a cowed dog, of one of those trailer park mutts who would freeze and hover low to the ground whenever their piece-of-shit owners walked by. Big puppy eyes, body cringed low to the ground, waiting to get beat…only to sometimes give the smallest, happiest, most relieved and grateful tail-wag when they didn’t get swatted and instead received a thoughtless head pat. 

Daryl knew he wasn’t alone in this observation. Although Rick was endeavoring not to meet his eye too frequently and was attempting to behave as though everything about this situation was completely normal, Daryl could see that Rick was thrown by this submissive, child-like Francie. 

But, unlike Daryl, taking on an authoritative and almost paternal tone came naturally to Francie, whether because he was a father or a natural-born leader, Daryl didn’t know. But he did know that Francie seemed calmer and almost contented when Rick gave her short, direct orders. He slipped into the role with apparent ease, whether he was handing her a bottle of water and saying “Drink, honey” (and then, “Nope, more than that, honey”), or ordering her out of the truck and saying “Stand here and don’t move” while they cleared the road, or even commanding her to nap, saying “Shut your eyes and get some rest.” 

Daryl didn’t want to complain. Especially not when Francie’s version of getting some rest was looking hopefully up at Daryl and then, after his brief, encouraging nod, laying her head down in his lap and curling up in a ball in the middle of the truck’s bench seat. But even though he didn’t say a word, he knew Rick felt the tension coming off him in waves, and as a result, they spent most of the car ride in complete silence, save for the Leonard Cohen C.D. which played on repeat for hours. 

But, now, even if they hadn’t run out of gas, it was too dark and dangerous to continue onward. Their headlights would make them a sitting duck in the vast darkness of the forest, and the roads were winding and narrow, making them tricky to traverse even in broad daylight.   
Rick spread out the sleeping bags in the back of the truck while Daryl created a loose, makeshift booby trap around the area. It wasn’t perfect, but it would give them a few extra seconds of warning should any dead wander by. 

As for Francie, she sat on the truck’s hood, watching him patiently and giving him small smiles whenever he glanced over her way. That tugged at his heart. Even after all she had been through, all she was still going through, she was still smiling for him. 

They didn’t think it was worth the risk of a fire, despite the fact that it had to be at least 30 degrees outside, though it felt even colder thanks to the icy wind whipping through the trees. Occasional snow flurries would flutter by, and Daryl hoped like hell that a snowstorm wouldn’t begin in earnest until they were able to make it back to the hotel. 

“Dinner time, honey,” said Rick, motioning for her to hop off the truck hood. She obeyed happily, following him to the back of the truck where he had spread out as many blankets as possible on top of the sleeping bags. Even through the cushioning, Daryl could feel the cold steel of the truck through the blankets and his jeans as he sat down by Francie. 

Rick sat down on the other side of her, spread out his long legs in front of him, and then opened his bag. After rooting around for a while, he located a few packages of cheese and crackers. He tossed Daryl a couple, and then opened his package and started eating. 

Daryl looked over at Francie. She was patiently watching Rick without a word, occasionally resting her head back on the truck’s rear window behind her and gazing up at the stars. 

Rick kept eating without looking at either her or Daryl, but he did suddenly reach out mid-bite to pull one of the blankets around Francie’s legs. Francie gave him a grateful smile. 

“Your hands feel like ice,” ordered Rick. “Put them under your legs.” 

She nodded, leaning forward to sit on her hands. Daryl doubted that would do much good. 

“You must be used to this,” said Rick to her, this time in a gentler tone. “More than me and Dar, anyway.” 

She looked up at him with a confused look on her face. 

“You’re from Wisconsin, aren’t you? I thought someone told me that.” 

Daryl had, or at least he had told Denise way back before everything had gone to shit thanks to the Saviors. 

A small, glowing look came on her face. 

“Yeah,” she said. “I remember that.” 

Remembering made her happy. Rick was making her happy. 

A dull feeling filled Daryl’s belly. He could do this. He had to do this. He started eating, putting whole crackers into his mouth without hardly and certainly without tasting the food. 

“Chances of us finding gas out here are slim,” said Rick, looking over Francie’s head to meet Daryl’s squinted gaze. “Probably gonna have to walk the rest of the way.”  
Daryl frowned. 

“Can’t be more than 10 miles?” said Rick, reading Daryl’s disapproval. 

“Yeah, but it’s fucking steep as shit, probably impossible to make it up in some places…rock falls and shit. Plus, the higher we go, the more snow.” 

“Could stick right by the road,” pointed out Rick, unscrewing his water bottle and taking a long drink. 

“Would take even longer that way, loops around and around. Plus, I don’t like the idea of being out near the road on foot…anyone can just drive by and see us.” 

Rick stared at him and said nothing. 

“Possible to find gas, maybe,” said Daryl doubtfully. “There’s cabins near here. Stopped by them when we came through last time.” 

Francie cocked her head at him and smiled. 

“They were overrun though, at least, they were back then,” he said. 

“Shit, man,” sighed Rick. “I just want to get back to my kids.” 

Daryl looked at him. He knew what Rick was thinking. If it was just the two of them, just him and Rick, walking would be a no-brainer. They were both fit and strong as hell, used to hard physical activity and being exposed to the elements. But Francie?

“You think you can do it, girl?” he asked Francie, giving her a gentle nudge on the thigh. 

She nodded quickly. 

“She ain’t even got clothes or a coat or nothing,” said Daryl to Rick. 

“Neither do you,” said Francie quietly. Then her eyes got big. She froze and looked up at him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Sorry.”

Daryl tried ineffectually to hide his grimace, not that Francie noticed, as she was now intently staring down at her hands.

Rick took in the scene without a word, and then continued on. 

“Got extra socks, that works just as good,” he said, even though it obviously didn’t. “Just a day’s hike, if we’re lucky and we don’t have any trouble on the way.” 

“Fine,” agreed Daryl, anything to make the conversation end. Anything to get Francie back to safety, back to a place where she could heal and find herself again. 

“It’s a plan, then,” said Rick. “Leave at first light.” 

Then in the same direct, calm tone, he held out a cracker and said to Francie, “Here, eat.” 

“Come here,” Rick said to Daryl, “Gotta show you something in the engine.” 

Daryl frowned but stood up, rubbing his hands on his jeans as he stood up to try and get some circulation back in them. He knew Rick had nothing to show him in the engine, that it was just a cover, but Francie accepted it readily enough and sat eating her crackers with quick, nervous little bites, as if she expected the food to be taken away from her at any minute. 

When they were out of Francie’s earshot, Rick cleared his throat a little awkwardly. 

“Fuck’s it now?” asked Daryl. 

“While you were out…during lunch, when you went out for a smoke,” said Rick. 

“Yeah?”

“She asked me something.” 

Daryl watched him impatiently.

“I couldn’t tell you before, never had a chance without her being there listening.” 

“Spit it out, man.”

“She…asked me about…her…um, underwear.” 

Here, Rick almost blushed. 

Daryl shook his head in confusion. 

“Fuck you saying?” 

“She…wanted to know what happened to them. Why she was wearing new underwear.” 

Daryl frowned. Guilt flooded through him. 

“She’s upset I undressed her?”

“That’s what I thought…at first. I tried to tell her I didn’t look or nothing, that only you looked. I mean, I figured you guys have been…that you have had sex with her before,” said Rick. 

Now it was Daryl’s turn to flush a little. 

“She was recovering from being raped,” he snapped a little. “I didn’t do nothing like that to her.” 

Rick put his hands up. 

“That ain’t what she was upset about anyway. Didn’t say nothing about you undressing her. She was just upset that…”

“What?” asked Daryl. 

“She said she’ll get in trouble. If she’s…not wearing those.” 

Daryl shook his head in confusion. 

“She’s not supposed to,” said Rick flatly. “She’s not supposed to wear a bra or…” 

Here, he cleared his throat, and then shrugged, finally continuing, “Negan doesn’t like her to wear ‘big girl’ underwear, she said.” 

Daryl stared at him for a second, hot lava in his veins. 

“That is the nastiest shit I have ever heard,” said Daryl finally. 

“I thought you should know…because…she just seems pretty messed up, is all.” 

“Who can blame her, after what she went through?” asked Daryl defensively. 

“I ain’t blaming her, man. I just, I don’t know. Kind of above my pay grade, you know? I didn’t know how to handle it, what the hell I was supposed to say. So I just told her it was okay…for special occasions.” 

Daryl raised his bows and gave him a baffled look. 

“Shit,” said Rick. “All I could come up with.” 

Daryl let out a huff of air, then rubbed his face in his hands in an anxious motion. 

“You know I’m gonna kill him right?” he said to Rick suddenly. “No matter what. No matter what.” 

Rick nodded tightly. “Figured.” 

The two men looked at each other, neither speaking for a moment. 

“Do what you gotta do,” said Rick finally. “Got your back. Always.” 

Daryl gave him a grateful glance, then said, “All I wanna do now is get her safe in her own bed. Then…then I can do what’s next.” 

“Kay,” nodded Rick, as Daryl started to head to the back of the truck, but then he added. “But---”

Daryl turned to look back at him. 

“Take it…easy, you know?” said Rick. “You been acting like you’re about to blow up all day. I know she can feel it, too. Just do how I’m doing.” 

Daryl scrunched his nose in disgust at that. 

“Keep her calm, keep her happy, keep her quiet,” said Rick. “Ain’t time for anything else right now.” 

Daryl released the tension in his shoulders.

He knew Rick was right. But ordering Francie around like a little girl felt wronger than anything he could imagine.

“It’s fucked up,” he said finally, almost in a whisper. 

“Dead people are walking around eating us,” said Rick. “Everything is fucked up.” 

“No,” said Daryl. “Hurting her is different…that’s a different level of fucked up.” 

“Ain’t hurting her, it’s helping her,” said Rick. “If she has a panic attack out here and starts screaming again, she could get herself killed. All of us killed.” 

Daryl shook his head. 

“She’s survived out here before,” said Daryl. “She’s tough, you said so.” 

“Sure, SHE is,” said Rick. “But you said yourself, you don’t know who we got back there right now. Her…or some other version of her entirely.”

Daryl chewed his bottom lip angrily. 

“Tell her to go to sleep,” said Rick suddenly. “See how good she responds to it. Helluva a lot better than if you walk back there and keep acting like a psychopath who’s plotting his next attack.” 

“Fuck off, man,” Daryl muttered under his breath, turning around and walking away from Rick. 

“See if I’m right!” he called to Daryl’s back. 

Daryl gave him the finger.


	62. what the fuck

When Daryl walked around the truck, adrenaline instantly pumped through his veins when he heard Francie speaking to someone. He rushed towards her, terrified what he would find, but he let out a silent sigh of relief when he saw she was talking to…no one. No one but herself. Set wrapped in blankets and leaning against the rear window of the truck, she was half-reclined in the truck bed, her lips moving as she spoke nearly indecipherable words. He could only make out a few things—“Mom” and “Daryl” and “home” and “scared” and “bad.” 

Finally, he gave up and stopped eavesdropping, not only because he felt guilty but because he couldn’t stand to see her like that, talking to herself as if she was used to it. Used to being alone. Used to comforting herself. Used to disappearing into her own world. 

He came up beside the truck bed quietly. She looked up as he climbed into the truck bed and sat beside her. He wondered if she might be startled, or even embarrassed, but she wasn’t. 

Instead, she just gave him a soft smile. 

He looked down at the package of crackers Rick had left behind. She had only eaten one. 

He opened his mouth to say something, but then stopped. Rick had only handed her one. So, despite the fact that she had to be starving, that’s all she was gonna eat. 

Unless someone told her otherwise. 

“Eat the rest of those, girl,” he said, trying to sound confident and assertive, though he was certain he only sounded gruff and angry. 

She hesitated a minute, and he swore she was going to say she needed Rick’s permission, so he bit out, “Fucking wasting food” and this asshole comment seemed to give her the motivation she needed to continue eating.

Happily. Calmly. Just eating away as if he wasn’t out of line at all. He couldn’t believe it. 

She should have been angry at him. Should have snapped back at him and called him an asshole. The old Francie was softhearted, but she wasn’t a pushover. Hell, the last time they had an argument, when she told him she was going to Simon, she threw a stiletto at his head. 

This new Francie. She was something different entirely. As if Negan had cut her open, scooped out her insides, and left nothing but a frightened, helpless little girl inside of her. 

He sat beside her in silence, but it wasn’t a comfortable silence. Not like before she went away, when he could sit with her in companionable silence, without feeling like a stupid redneck who didn’t know how to hold an intellectual conversation. Racking his brain for something to say, he came up with this: 

“Cold as fuck.” 

Francie looked worriedly over at him. 

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Why?” he asked. “You ain’t make it snow.” 

She blushed a little and looked down at the crackers in her lap. 

“Just meant…don’t want you to be cold,” she said, quietly, her words nearly collapsing in on themselves with how quiet and rushed and delicately they were spoken. 

“You cold?” he asked, after a beat. 

“It’s…not bad. It’s okay. I’m cold but not too cold…are you cold?” 

He didn’t say anything, but she must have read something in his face, because she stopped herself suddenly.

“Sorry, you already said that you were,” she said again, blushing, pushing a layer of dark hair off her face and behind her ear with a small, nervous motion. 

He looked down at her and shrugged. “Don’t matter, girl.” 

She kept eating, but he could swear that her movements were strange, stilted…as if he was making her nervous. She definitely seemed nervous. He realized it was the first time they had been alone since the morning. 

“Care if I smoke while you eat?” he asked finally. 

Her finely arched brows shot up. She looked at him like he was asking her a trick question. Her lips moved uncertainly, as if she was trying to find the right words but coming up empty. 

“You can…do what you want,” she said, ultimately, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

He grunted at that. 

“Merle always said not to trust a woman who said ‘do what you want,’” he said, trying to sound teasing but failing. 

She tilted her head to the side and glanced up at him from under her lashes. She was silent, watchful, and he suddenly realized she was trying to read his expression, trying to gauge what reaction he was looking for…trying to give him what he wanted. 

“I was just trying to make you laugh, girl,” he said, taking a deep drag off his smoke and looking into the darkness. 

“Oh, sorry,” she said, and then she gave a quick, girlish and unconvincing giggle. “Sorry. That was funny.” 

He shook his head. 

“Naw, not really,” he said. “You ain’t gotta kiss my ass, you know. I ain’t Negan.”

He didn’t know why he said that. The words came out of him without his conscious intent. Sounded like a jackass, hell, he was being a jackass, but he was searching for purchase, for anything he could grip onto as he tried to figure out this new terrain with her. 

Saying Negan’s name had an instant impact on her. She lost color in her cheeks, and her shivering in the cold wind changed to something else, something deeper. Trembling. 

“I—I didn’t kiss his ass,” she whispered, looking down at her lap and biting her lower lip. 

Daryl reached out his arm to her and she fairly leaped in the air. 

“Sorry,” she said. “I just wasn’t expecting you…sorry.” 

His arm fell. He wanted to tell her to stop saying sorry, but considering how shitty he was reacting thus far, he thought it was best to just shut the fuck up. 

She fiddled with the wrapper in her lap. 

“Do I have to finish all these?” she said finally. “I don’t feel good.” 

He wanted to repeat her earlier words to him “You can do what you want” but he felt like the thin ice he was walking on was beginning to crack steadily, rapidly. 

“No, girl,” he said. “I want ‘em, anyway.” 

“Oh, oh,” she said quickly, handing her the package. “Sorry, sorry.” 

“What do you feel like?” he asked, ignoring this sequence of apologies and stuffing a whole cracker in his mouth, even though his belly felt like a stone. 

“Pardon?” she asked politely, her hands folded gently in her lap. 

“You said you don’t feel good. What do you feel like?” 

“OH. That. Oh. Nothing. It doesn’t matter,” she stuttered out quickly, shaking her head nervously back and forth. “I don’t need any medicine. I don’t want any medicine. Do I have to take more medicine?” 

The words tumbled out of her in a rushing pile. 

“No, girl,” he said, emptily. “But you do need rest, kay?” 

She nodded. She tucked the blanket around her, and went to lay her head back on the truck, shutting her eyes almost instantly. 

“No, no,” he said, not realizing she would obey him so quickly. “I mean, in the truck. Be warmer in there. Go on and get back there. Take your boots off. I’ll come tuck you in.” 

He was surprised how natural that sounded. 

But she didn’t move right away to do as he bid her. This confused him. He thought he sounded pretty good following Rick’s lead. 

“What?” he asked, not able to read the warring, confused emotions on her face. 

“Where…where….where….” she stopped herself, and blushed again, deeply this time. 

“Where am I going to sleep?” he asked finally, hoping that he was reading her mind correctly. 

“Yeah,” she said, although it was more of a “Ye—” and then nothing as she fell into an embarrassed silence.

“Out here. Take turns with Rick keeping watch,” he said. 

“Oh,” she said, although again it was more of a light sound, less of an actual word. 

He felt the strongest urge to grab her, drag her into his lap, run his hands through her hair. Open her up, make her talk to him. Make her tell what she was thinking. Make her tell him how to fix this. 

“That okay?” he asked finally. 

She rose to her feet, nodding vehemently. “Yes, sorry. Sorry. Sorry. It’s not…I…just wondered.” 

She walked to the end of the open truck bed and slid off silently, giving him a tiny smile as she walked around the car. He heard the car door gently shut after she climbed in the cab.

“Fuck,” he said. “What the fuck.”


	63. stating the obvious

Rick looked surprised when he came back to the truck and saw Daryl sitting there alone. 

“Longest piss in the world,” said Daryl sarcastically, even though he effortlessly knew the real reason Rick had been gone so long was to try and give him and Francie some privacy. 

“She laying down there?” asked Rick, coming up onto the truck bed, then stepping over the blankets and hopping onto the truck’s roof. 

“Yeah.” 

“By herself?”

Daryl shot him a look. 

“Be warmer for her if you laid by her. Needs the body heat. She weighs less than 100 pounds, I bet.” 

Daryl hadn’t considered that. But still he didn’t appreciate the prying. He was starting to remember why big brothers were so annoying. 

“So why don’t you wanna?” asked Rick, forcing the issue. 

“Not sure she wants me to,” said Daryl. “She seems…” 

Rick nodded. He didn’t need to say more. 

“Do you think…she wants you to?” Daryl asked, barely believing the words coming out of his mouth. 

Rick frowned in confusion down at him. 

“She seems better with you,” said Daryl, quietly. “Don’t want her to be cold.” 

“Don’t think Michonne would go for that,” said Rick, giving him a small teasing smile. 

“Ain’t what I meant,” said Daryl a little peevishly. “Not like that. Just mean like last night.” 

“She slept in the closet, Dar,” said Rick, kicking him in the shoulder a little with his boot to get him to look at him. “I didn’t share a bed with her.” 

Daryl tried to keep his expression neutral but he couldn’t hide the relieved look in his eyes. Even in the dark, Rick saw it and laughed. 

“Shit, man, she’s your girl,” said Rick. “Go to her. It’s your job.”

Daryl rose, but then looked down at his feet, conflicted. 

“Don’t like feeling like…she’s only doing what she’s told. Like a freaking wind-up doll or something. How can I know…she really wants me to?” 

Rick shook his head. 

“Can’t be serious, man,” he said. “She was practically purring in your lap this afternoon.” 

Daryl rolled his eyes but felt a secret flash of relief. 

“Just keep your pants on,” said Rick. “Don’t want a whole herd of walkers coming in cause y’all moaning.” 

Daryl scoffed a little and smiled down at the ground. 

“Thank you,” he said, growing serious. 

“Shoot, I’m just stating the obvious.” 

“No…I mean. For saving me. For saving…her. I can’t—I don’t know how to thank—”

“Hush, Dar,” said Rick. “Don’t need to say nothing. How many fucking times you saved my kids? Me? Michonne?” 

Daryl looked up at him on the roof of the truck. 

“Now, go to sleep,” said Rick. “Your turn for watch before you know it.” 

Daryl nodded, then pulled open the truck door. 

He was surprised to see Francie in the corner of the truck, curled up by the passenger door, her head propped up against it. 

She looked like she was sleeping, but she opened her eyes quickly when she heard him. 

He sank into the driver’s seat, shifting his body so that he was facing her.

She had taken her boots off like he ordered. In the dark, it was hard to see anything but her face, her big, green eyes like lanterns against her pale face. But he could see she was cold. Really cold. 

“I can keep you warm, if you want,” he said finally.

She sat up hesitantly, as if she wasn’t sure what he meant, but nodded quickly. 

“Hop up for a second,” he said, then moving around her body he reclined himself on the truck seat, his feet under the steering wheel and his head propped under his arm. It was a tight fit for his legs, but he was used to sleeping outside. Hell, he was used to sleeping on cold cement. 

She looked uncertainly at him, half-perched on the truck seat, her hands in her lap. 

“You fit me,” he said, and as if she remembered that, remembering him saying that to her so many weeks ago, she abruptly burst into tears and collapsed on top of his chest. 

Exhaling, he reached out and grabbed her from her under the arms, hauling her up so that her head was tucked neatly under his chin and her body was flush on top of his, her legs curling into the small space between his. 

He let her cry from a while, half-hoped she would cry herself out and go right to sleep. But after about 15 minutes, she asked.

“Mad at me?” 

His heart caught at that. Not just at the words, at the question itself, but at the small, scared way she asked it. 

“No, babygirl.” 

She sighed a little.

“Not mad at you,” he said. 

She reached up a small hand to wipe away the tears from her face, then tucked her head back down under her chin. 

“You’re good, babygirl. You’re good. I ain’t mad at ya. Rick ain’t mad at ya.” 

He felt her body relax more and more as he spoke, so he kept on. 

“Good girl. Good girl. We ain’t mad at ya. You ain’t in trouble. Taking care of you now, okay?” he said, running his hand up and down her side as she hid her face in her hands, his hands tracing all the way up to the side of her breast and then lingering there.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. 

“For what, girl?” he said. 

And this time when he asked, he didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound like he was picturing breaking Negan apart bone by bone. He sounded like he was listening. Like he just wanted to hear her. 

“I don’t know,” she said brokenly. “Just…everything. I just feel so bad. So wrong. So ashamed. And so, so sorry.” 

“Oh, sweet girl,” he said, feeling his heart break a little at that. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “Ain’t bad. Ain’t wrong. Ain’t nothing to ashamed of, nothing to be sorry for.” 

She moved her face off her hands and gripped them around his chest, snuggling deeper into him and moving her hips temptingly against his crotch. 

“Negan said…”

Here she paused, and he knew she was scared to continue, scared of his reaction. 

“I want to hear, babygirl,” he said. “I ain’t gonna lose my temper. Not anymore. I’m here.” 

“He said that’s why everyone I loved…why my mom died. Because I’m bad. Weak. Selfish.” 

Daryl clucked his tongue gently and reached down to grip her tighter to him, his hands spanning her waist. 

“I didn’t even…I didn’t even…I should have made sure she…,” said Francie. “I mean, so that she wouldn’t turn into one of those things. But I didn’t. I left her. So now she’s out there. Alone and scared and scary and—” 

“Girl,” said Daryl, hearing the wild tone growing in Francie’s voice and remembering it from his past days with her. He needed to nip this in the bud. “You listen to me now.” 

She stopped talking and looked up at him. 

“Your momma ain’t walking around nowhere. She’s in heaven, okay? Her body ain’t her. Her body ain’t her. And you ain’t done NOTHING wrong or nothing BAD.” 

Daryl didn’t know where his words were coming from. He didn’t believe in no god, and he was sure that Francie probably didn’t either. But his words met her where she was at, and she accepted them childishly, docilely. 

“Promise?” 

“Promise, girl,” he said, and his tone was harsh, no-nonsense, as if he wouldn’t accept her challenging him on this. 

She was quiet for a long time, and he thought she might be asleep. 

“I love you, Daryl,” she said. “Love you more than anything in the whole world.” 

He shut his eyes and felt his whole body grow warm. He was speechless, but it didn’t seem like she expected or wanted him to answer, instead humming a sigh and falling deep into slumber. 

And he followed.


	64. she was gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major, major trigger warnings for the following: Daddy Kink, spanking, slight age-play, self-harm
> 
> Sorry I don’t know why I did this. I just haven’t written in Francie’s POV in a MINUTE and I kept feeling pulled to that…so this happened. Fuck. Sorry. 
> 
> Oh and non-con. Non-consensual, non-consensual, non-consensual! (said to the tune of Tina Belcher’s “Non-canonical, non-canonical!”) 😉

\----------Three Weeks Prior---------------- 

Francie didn’t feel anything. There was blood all over her hands and thighs, but she didn’t feel anything. She wondered if it was the pills Simon kept giving her. She was surprised by how easily she took to them, how easily she accepted them out of his hands, never questioning, never wondering what they might be. 

But then again, she didn’t care. She’d drink battery acid if someone told her it would make her feel better. Or rather, if they told her it would make her feel nothing. She didn’t expect happiness, didn’t seek peace, knew that wasn’t gonna happen. But nothing. Nothing could happen. Nothing was good. 

Someone coming, footsteps in the hall. Sensed it was him before she smelled his aftershave, heard his telltale heavy, swaggering stride.  
Him again. Wouldn’t leave her alone. Worse than Simon. Simon was scared of her, she could sense that. Cringed at the bloody little mess she had become. Pulled away from her crazy. Smart man. Normal man. Wanted happy, pretty girl who giggled and sucked his cock. 

Can’t blame him, even if she can blame him, even if he’s the reason—he’s the reason—he’s the reason… 

No, not thinking that. Won’t think about that. 

He’s pulling me off the ground, holding me in his arms like I’m a little girl. Yelling for Simon, yelling at Simon. Simon’s exasperated, done with this. Doesn’t want to be caring for Sylvia fuckin’ Plath anymore. Why don’t they just let me go, then? 

Because He wants me now. All the drugs in their world can’t numb that reality. Want to stay with Simon. Safe with him. Something like safe. 

Not safe now. 

\-----------Two Weeks Prior------------ 

Negan takes his time bathing her, he always does, his big, warm hand invading her cunt, massaging her breasts, running through her hair. It’s all his. It’s all his.

“Like my angel to be clean,” he would say, shooting her a megawatt smile as she lay motionless in the warm bathtub. 

It was always warm. Not too hot. Not too cold. He was careful with her. Kept him beside him all the time, except when he couldn’t, and then she was handcuffed to Simon. 

“Poetic justice,” he said to Simon. “You brought her here, and now she’s never leaving.” 

She could tell Simon pitied her, to a point, but also loathed her. Everyone assumed she was fucking Negan. They watched her sit and eat out of his hand, held tight in his lap while he put bite after bite in her waiting mouth. They watched her being punished when she cut herself or broke any of Negan’s other rules. 

They saw. They saw. 

The time she got an attitude in the cafeteria and he grabbed her by the bicep, pulled her towards him, and swatted her hard on the butt three times. She was so shocked she just stood there. So did everyone else. 

He told her if she ever did that again, she would find herself with her panties down, over his knee, in front of everyone. 

That shamed her silent. She couldn’t imagine that level of humiliation, degradation. It was bad enough that Negan had made her wear such underwear in the first place…in the old world, they never would have even fit her, but she was so starved and small now, she had no excuse not to wear them. 

Except, of course, that it was disgusting and wrong and she didn’t want to be his little girl, his little perverted sex doll. 

Truth be told, she had no idea what he wanted from her. He could have raped her at any time, but he didn’t. 

Did everything else to her, but not that. 

She slept next to him most nights, except when she was being punished, when she had to sleep in the closet. He made her sleep naked, and some nights he did too, usually after stumbling in drunk after a night with one of his wives. On those mornings, she would wake up with his cock hard against her ass cheeks, and sometimes, as she lay there, he would jerk off, talking to her the whole time, calling her his angel, his slut, his bitch and saying he was gonna make her happier than Daryl ever did. 

She hated when he said his name. Hated it more than the warm cum she would feel dripping down her belly, pooling down to her own cunt. 

Nicole shaved her bare on his orders. Her touch was so gentle and affectionate that it nearly made Francie weep, even the though the act itself was infantilizing. 

“Your fault, angel tits,” he taunted her. “You made it fucking CLEAR you can’t be around razors. Besides, I know Nicky likes to be up and close and personal with you.” 

Nicole was all she had left now. The other wives couldn’t stand her. Hated the special treatment. How she got new dresses and chocolate and drugs and his undivided attention. How he would gently rub her thighs, drifting his hand causally up the apex, during meetings. How he would take on a sudden paternal role and command her to put her hair out of her face, to stop biting her nails, to make sure and go pee before dinner time. 

They didn’t know the worst of it. That he made her take all of her clothes off, no hospital gown or anything, as he watched while Dr. Carson gave her a full physical. 

She lay bare and shivering and ashamed on the table, the two of them talking about her casually as if she wasn’t there, a speculum holding her open while Negan inquired about her ovulation cycle. 

“I don’t want to have any babies!” she had finally said, angrily, unable to believe this conversation and what Negan seemed to be implying about the future. 

Negan’s face hadn’t darkened. He didn’t frown. 

He smiled. 

That’s when she knew she was really in trouble. 

“Doc,” he said. “Can I ask you to take that thing out of my little girl’s pussy? Need to have a talk with her.” 

Dr. Carson’s ears had tinged red, but he removed the speculum and left the room quickly. 

She moved to sit up, remove her feet from the stirrups, but Negan put his hands on her lower belly, holding her in place. Then, he delivered a series of smarting swats to her naked pussy, without saying a word. Tears streamed down her face as she sobbed in mortification. 

“This pussy is mine,” he said, suddenly slipping an index finger inside of her. It slipped in easily, thanks to the lubricant Dr. Carson had applied. She felt him moving the finger against her cervix. “It’s my job to protect it, okay? And it’s your job to listen to me. You know that, right?” 

She didn’t answer, and found herself receiving more swats, this time to the backs of her thighs. 

“Right?” he asked, again not frowning or appearing at all perturbed. 

“Yes,” she breathed out finally. 

“Yes, what?” he asked, putting another finger in her pussy, moving it in and out rhythmically. 

She closed her eyes. 

“Daddy.”

“Hmm?” he asked, pushing the tip of his finger into her anus. 

“Yes, Daddy!” she shouted angrily, hatefully. 

He only laughed. 

“Half the hallway just heard that,” he said. 

She blushed. 

“It’s okay, angel. They know I’m your daddy. They know I’m in your little cunt right now. And, you…you like me in your little cunt, don’t you? Dirty girl. Bad girl.” 

She shook her head violently, but he was no novice at this, his hands were stroking all the right places, even though her body was ringing shame pain and violation and disgust. 

“You’re such a bad girl, you know that, right? What would Daryl say if he saw this? Oh, wait…he’s fucking dead as a goddamn DOORnail, thanks to you.” 

She cried harder, trying to pull himself off his fingers to no avail. 

“Keep doing that and I’ll have Dr. Carson come back in here to hold you down.” 

She went still, terrified at that prospect. 

“Yeah, my little girl doesn’t like to be made a spectacle of, does she? Think you’re too good, huh? Well, let me tell you, angel, a good girl wouldn’t be creaming my fingers the way you are right now. A good girl wouldn’t have my finger up her asshole right now. You fucking slut.” 

She felt herself starting to black out. Not physically. Just going away. Going away in her mind. 

“Slut. You’re lucky I’m touching you right now, you know that? Could have you working the fence. Could have you in my cells. Instead, I’m taking EX-tra special fucking care of you, and this is the thanks I get? Are you even listening to me, bitch? Fucking la-la land.”

He abruptly took his hands out of her. 

“Get up. You’re going to your closet the rest of the day.”

Now he was frowning. Now he was pissed. 

He pulled her off the exam table. 

A squeak came out of her lips. “My clothes,” she begged. 

Now he smiled.

“Don’t need ‘em,” he said. 

She went away. Away. Away. They were staring but she was gone.


	65. he warned her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same content warnings apply. Please read and consider them ….feel guilty as hell writing such crap, let alone triggering someone with it!!!!! There is self-harm descriptions here and I don’t want to take it lightly/romanticize that…been there myself, and that’s all I wanna say but please don’t think I’m trying to make it sound “cool”

Most mornings she would wake up with him tight behind her, his morning wood pressing clearly into her ass. She would have preferred the closet, cold as it was, except then she was alone with her thoughts. Her nightmares. The images in her brain. His dead body. His bloody, pale face. Her fault. Her fault. Her fault. 

When she cried, when she screamed, he held her. Sometimes, she even liked it. He was tricky, so tricky. Cunning. Just as easily as he spanked her and humiliated her, he would comfort and coddle her. It made her sick, disgusted, but she was getting confused. At times she felt almost…elated. As though as she could see the secrets of the universe. 

“Wow, you’re tripping balls,” Nicole had said to her one morning, and that was when it first occurred to her that she might not just be taking regular prescription drugs. 

She confronted him about it later. 

And that’s when she messed up. Because she mentioned Nicole’s name. Didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean to. Didn’t matter. It started then. That look. In his eyes. 

“Nicole said what?” he had asked her, putting two white thick pills in her open hand. 

She went silent. 

He started pulling her arm, tugging her down to his lap. 

“No, no, no—I meant—”

“Nope, too late, little girl. You know better,” he said. 

She closed her eyes. He pulled down her sleep shorts and her panties. 

“Why am I spanking you?” he asked, laying his hand on her ass cheek. 

She didn’t answer. 

Bad idea.

She felt his energy change. 

“I don’t think I like the effect Nicole is having on you,” he said. “She’s making you act like a very bad little girl.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, words tumbling out quickly, frightened now that she had gotten her friend in trouble. 

“Too late,” he said. And he then spanked her, again and again with his open hand, telling her she was a slut, a bad girl, a dirty girl. Nasty. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. 

After it was over he stood her up. Did what he always did after spanking her. Cupped her pussy to see if it was wet. 

Sometimes it was. This was proof. Proof he showed her. Proof he made her see. This time. This time it wasn’t. He pulled his hand away and shrugged, tugged her panties and shorts back up roughly. 

She thought she got off easy, all things considered. 

Surprised he didn’t do worse. He had spanked her harder before, even made Simon spank her, which was worse. Simon spanked harder for some reason, and sometimes he used his belt. Even when he didn’t, his eyes were so filled with hatred. He wasn’t enjoying it, except he was, somehow. So, that’s what she expected this time. Simon coming in like he had before, Negan calling him on the radio. 

Simon silently pushing her face down on the bed before undoing his belt. Cussing quietly as he spanked her ass so hard it bruised, then abruptly walking out after Negan would call out “Slut’s had enough.” 

But not this time. In fact, he didn’t even give her that many pills. Went out to party with the Saviors down in the makeshift bar. Left her alone without chaining her up. 

So yeah, she cut herself. 

He left nail scissors. She just…had to. Had to get this feeling out. This shame. This disgust. Had to punish herself. Had to. Had to. Had to. Had to. 

He warned her what would happen if she did. He warned her. 

She didn’t listen.


	66. lesson

“Arms up,” said Negan. He was dressing her. He liked to do that. 

She was numb with terror. He found her bleeding, he knew what she had done. But other than calling in Dr. Carson to clean her up, he hadn’t punished her. 

Not yet. 

But now, it was morning, and he was dressing her to go downstairs. For a meeting. A Sanctuary-wide meeting, he said. 

She was crying. He was going to spank her in front of them. Make her a fool, a slut a disgusting, nasty thing. She was glad Daryl was dead. If he wasn’t, she would kill him herself so that he would never, ever see this, never, ever know about this. 

Dragged her downstairs by her bicep, fingers digging in the bone. 

Didn’t expect Nicole to be standing there by the fire. On the stage. That’s what he called it. A stage. And perform he did. But today, she thought maybe Nicole would have to perform too. Her cheeks went red. What was he going to make Nicole do to her? 

She tried to shoot her friend a commiserating glance but all she got was a glare. 

Then Negan explained. What Francie did wrong. Bad girl. Sick girl. Nasty girl. Can’t learn. Won’t learn. Wasting valuable medical supplies. Wasting time. Wasting Dr. Carson’s time. Wasting his time. Being a little slut. Fucking every man she could. Taking all the best food. Clothes. Laying in bed drunk and high. Slut. Slut. 

The crowd hated her, could feel that. Hated most of the wives, her even more. They saw him spoon-feed her ice cream. Saw her walking around in new dresses, hair perfect, makeup done, while they ate scraps and went shoeless. 

They wanted to see her hurt. 

Now Negan told everyone what had to be done. What would make this slut learn. What would make all these sluts learn? Francie shook her head, shook her head, shook her head, shook her head. She thought Nicole was crying but she couldn’t hear. There was a roaring sound in her ears. Negan’s eyes flashed, fire reflecting in them. 

Go away go away go away go away she screamed to herself go away but she couldn’t not this time there was no running there was no running from the bad she was the bad she did the bad in her and – 

She was consumed.


	67. lucky motherfuckers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god damn it, i should have also trigger warninged for the word 'slut'! i have been using it a lot and probably will a bit more....sorry. 
> 
> TW: HATE speech / Misogyny :(

Cold, so cold. Mom calling. She left the window open again. Elsa’s gonna get out. School. Poptarts. Meet Katie at the bus. 

Then she smelled him. Oh. Flooding back. Just a dream. Just a dream. Daryl. 

She opened her eyes. He was there. He was there. Watching her worriedly. 

She looked around. They were in a different position then when they fell asleep. He was upright, seated in the passenger seat, holding her in his lap. 

He took in her confused face. 

“Had to take watch,” he said. “Sleeping so hard you didn’t feel me move.” 

She flushed a little at that. It was the pills. Or the lack of them. Without them she felt heavy, weighed down…like she was moving in quicksand. 

“Sorry,” she heard herself saying. 

His brows twitched a little, but he didn’t say anything. He swiped a thumb along her lower lip. 

“You’re good, girl.” 

Made her breathless. She blushed deeper and looked down. 

“Gotta get moving,” he said, though his tone was reluctant. 

She looked out the window then, blinking her eyes. It was so bright it almost hurt. All she could see was snow. Someone had swiped the windows half-clean, but she still felt like she was sitting in an igloo. 

“Put your boots on,” he said, and she immediately sat up to do so. Then after a beat, he added, so quiet she almost didn’t hear: “Please.” 

Her hands went still. Why did he say that? She wondered. Made her feel guilty. Don’t have to say please, she wanted to say. Not to me. Fraud. Fraud. Fraud. Don’t be kind to me, she wanted to say, but she accepted it anyway. Ate it up. Selfishly. 

“Girl?” 

She looked up, eyes wide. Anxiety churned in her belly. She wanted to be sick. Needed to be sick. Sometimes this happened. When Negan ran out of Xanax once and she had to go cold turkey. Worst hangover of her life. 

At least, she thought it was Xanax. 

“She good?” she heard Rick say from somewhere outside the truck, the sound of zipping and packing and snow crunching under boots. 

“She’s good,” said Daryl, looking at her cautiously, his voice firm even if his eyes looked uncertain. “She’s good. You’re good, Francie. You’re good.” 

Oh. Francie. Sometimes she forgot her name. Or, didn’t forget it…but it was weird to hear it, to remember it was hers. She was Francie. She laughed a little. 

“Come here, girl,” said Daryl, suddenly.

She raised her brows but dropped her boots, immediately obeying and crawling back into his lap. 

Instantly, she felt better. She lay her forehead against his smooth neck, breathing him in. He was so big. So big compared to her. She wanted to fuck him. Jesus Christ. She was a slut. 

He stroked her hair, then pulled it taut in his hands. Not hurting her, just grasping her, making her look upwards. 

She met his eyes. 

“Good girl. Good girl.” 

She looked at him. His eyes were squinted in concentration. Felt like she was being pulled into a spell. He was warm and hard and smelled like the woods and he was looking at her, looking at her, looking at her like he loved her. Like he loved her. 

“You don’t know how bad I am,” she wanted to say. Fraud. Fraud. 

But it was time to go. Time to go because dead things showed up, just a few, but enough for Rick to get bloody and sweaty with exertion and Daryl put her down – no, don’t, don’t, she wanted to pout like a child—and then they had to grab the bags and walk up, up, up, up, up, up. 

She looked down at the dead bits and pieces all over the ground. Lucky them. 

“Lucky motherfuckers,” and she’s worried she said that out loud because they’re looking her in that way again, exchanging glances. 

So bright, so white, so hard to walk. Feet sticking in the thick cold. 

She likes when Daryl looks back at her. Loops his fingers around her wrist and tugs at her. She likes that. Likes watching him do anything, but this most of all: Walking in the wilderness, unafraid, head back, bow on his back. Eyes clear, back strong. He looks unbreakable. 

He looks like he’ll survive. He’ll survive. 

Even after she’s gone. That makes her happy. She likes that. 

His grip on her wrist tightens. 

He’s looking down at her worriedly. 

“Stay with me, girl, okay?” he said suddenly, breath coming fast, but just barely, nothing compared to the way she's panting. 

She nodded obediently, moving her steps faster to try and please him. Wanted to please him. Wanted to please him more than anything. 

“Naw, naw, girl,” he said. “Slow. Take it slow. That ain’t what I meant. I meant…” 

He didn’t finish the sentence. She looked up in him in wonderment. No clue what he’s on about but he’s fucking handsome as all hell and she doesn’t care if it’s cold as shitting fuck right now she would fucking love to get on her knees and suck his beautiful cock right now. 

Slut. Slut.

Slut.


	68. clean

Several hours of walking. She messed up. She admits it. Head hurting. Got upset about something. Saw something in the woods. It was an old thing, a thing she’d seen before. They didn’t believe her. Doesn’t matter. Rick gave her a pill. That’s okay. She knows he’s not doing it to hurt her. Not like Negan. Not like Simon. 

Tired, so tired, but it’s so bright no one could sleep in this brightness. The sunburn her friend Cora got on their ski trip in high school. Didn’t know you could burn so bad in the cold but you can. No sun today, not really. Just the white violent snow, violent because it’s real, it’s alive, it’s not a bad thing, it’s not like her. Kills on accident. Kills by existing. Just happens. But not her. The bad is in her. The bad is her. 

Daryl looks down at her. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. She wants to say sorry again. 

They stop to eat, but before they do, Rick says he needs to piss. Daryl does too. She stands there, feeling awkward, trying not to look. They won’t let her out of their sight. Rick’s belt buckle dangling. He buckles it back one-handed…Simon did that. Simon did that too.

She stares at him. They hand her a granola bar but she doesn’t want to eat it. Tastes like nothing. Like dust. She wants to make Daryl happy. Make Rick happy. Make them happy. 

She’s glad it’s so cold and hard now. No time to think. No time to remember. No time. She's glad there's no time. Once there's time, she's in trouble. Once there's time, she has to tell him. Who she is. What she did. The burned up body. The fingers in her pussy. The cum on her belly.

They walk on and on and on. She feels like they never get any higher. It's getting hot somehow. She wants to lie down and take off her clothes. Wants to lay down in the snow like a dead thing and just get washed in white. 

White. White. Doctor’s coat. Dr. Carson. The exam table. Naked, spread open. An animal. A dirty animal. A slut. Filthy. Filthy. 

She wants to tug her hand out of Daryl’s reach. So she does. Tugs hard, because he doesn’t want to let go. Looks back at her. Confused. 

Effort makes her ankle go strange. Shooting pain. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she was saying over and over, repeating it like a mantra as he scooped her up, Rick looking back with his ice-blue eyes creased in worry. 

“She good?” he asked. 

“She’s good. She’s good,” said Daryl. “Hurt her ankle. But she’s good.” 

Then, so low only she could hear, he said, “Gonna carry you for a while, okay, sweet girl? Give you a break.” 

Only moments ago she hadn’t wanted him touching her, had felt her skin alive with red-hot ants, her dirty skin, but now she exhaled. Loves when he calls her "sweet girl." She let her eyes close. Let the white brightness fade. 

“You remember what I told you the first time I met you? How we had a cat?” 

Francie’s eyes flickered open for a second. She smiled.

“Yeah.” 

“This morning Rick told me Carl’s been taking care of some cats up at the hotel. Been feeding some strays.” 

A smile lit up her face. 

He huffed a little and she frowned. 

“What?” she asked worriedly. “Am I too heavy?”

He scoffed. “I wish. Skin and bones, girl.”

She blushed a little. She knew her body didn’t look good. 

He spoke quickly. “I just…when you smiled like that, you just…” 

She tilted her head.

“Just looked so fucking pretty, girl.” 

Now he blushed, ducking his head down a little and looking more studiously at the ground ahead. 

She didn’t know what to say. 

“You’re pretty,” she landed on, finally, and then for some reason, she started giggling at the absurdity of that. 

He gave her a quick, sideways glance and smirked. Shaking his head, he said, “Fucking missed that laugh, girl.” 

She bit her bottom lip, giggle dying away. 

“Fucking missed you,” he said, and his voice was deep and needful and rough. 

She wanted to say she didn’t deserve that, that she didn’t deserve him, that she deserved to be dead or worse or nothing or –but he just leaned down and kissed her forehead and all that evaporated.

A moment of feeling clean.


	69. brace yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know, all the same TWs/CWs...

Time doesn’t matter in this world, just night and day. Neither is safe. In the old days, light meant safety. In the old days, dead things had to wait until the sun set until they could walk the streets. 

In these new days, evil walks in the sun and is not afraid. 

It’s night now. Night brings its own unique dangers. The fire they made in a desperate attempt to stay warm had to be put out when night fell in earnest. The light would attract walkers. Or worse. Saviors. Negan. Her end. 

No more time with Daryl.

Hell was coming. So close it felt hopeless to run. Felt like a fish flailing on the hook. All that effort. All that twisting and turning. Only impaling you further on the weapon of your demise. 

She had her hands buried deep in his shirt. He insisted. She didn’t want to, not because she didn’t want to touch him (hell, that’s all she wanted to do), but because she knew her hands were colder than ice. So cold they burned. Felt like she had left them in a fire and went to check the mail. Came back to find them all charred up. 

“That’s frostbite,” she heard Rick say to Daryl. 

“Nah,” he says. “Look how much pain she’s in. That’s a good sign.” 

Rick frowned. 

“When she stops hurting, then we’re in trouble.” 

Francie looked at him curiously. 

“Means there’s no more circulation,” he explained. “Means the tissue is dying.” 

She smiled. No more circulation. No more pain. No more warning messages to the brain. Just the slow painless death of soft flesh. You can’t hurt a dead thing. 

But, of course, a dead thing could hurt you. 

Daryl wanted her to take off her wet things. Her leggings were soaked through. Socks so wet from the snow that it was like she had been swimming in them. 

Rick assembled the tent in a thick copse of pine trees. They only had two sleeping bags. Didn’t matter. Daryl wanted her to share with him. She thought she would be cold without her pants and socks on, nothing but her panties and his thick white long john shirt. Gave it to her when she took off her hoodie. Soaked almost to the elbow from all the times she stumbled or had to use her hands for balance when they climbed up steep parts of the escarpment. 

So high up now, the air sounded different. Sounded like the way she thought it might sound in space. Vibrating. Cold. Alone. Empty. Yet seeking nothing. 

Daryl was warm, somehow, even without the layer he had given her. Well, not warm, exactly, but warmer than her. Warm under her fingers. He clutched her hands inside his flannel, the two of them bundled tightly in a single sleeping bag. Face to face, not moving, watching each other, her hands screaming in pain against his hard, shivering chest. Rick was outside the tent, sitting up wrapped in the other sleeping bag, gun on his lap. 

“You with me?” he asked. 

She smiled. An odd question considering she was halfway inside his shirt, with her legs wrapped inside his. In fact, they were so close she was certain she could feel his cock through his denim, rubbing against the thin fabric of her panties. 

“Where else would I be?” 

He shook his head. He looked anxious. She frowned, and started to move her hands away, but he gripped her back to him, shifting her so that she was rubbing even more on his crotch. 

She blushed. 

“What did you mean earlier?” he asked finally. 

She gave him a confused look. She had no idea what he was talking about. Her thoughts were coming in like sudden thunderstorms, rain coming in before she could close the window. 

“You don’t know what I mean, do you?” 

“Sorry.” 

He leaned forward suddenly. She felt his cold lips against hers. Suddenly she felt warm everywhere. His tongue was soft and strong inside her mouth, searching, passionate, full of desire. She came open. His hand was around the side of her neck, her face, gripping into her hair, sucking on her lower lip, only to pull her back in for a full, open-mouthed kiss, seducing her mouth open again, leading her but listening to her without words. 

When he pulled away, she was well and truly breathless. 

He huffed a little, shaking his head. 

“What?” 

He smiled. “Just kind of feel like…our roles reversed somehow.” 

She snuggled deeper into him. “What do you mean?”

“Just…when we first….before, I was the one who was…I used to think I wasn’t good enough for you to love, for anyone to love, but especially not a girl like you.” 

She shook her head in wonderment at that.

“But, now, you’re acting like…like…you’re inferior or something.” 

She blushed. The silence hung in the air like an icicle forming on the tent ceiling. 

“I’m tired,” she said finally. His eyes were dark with worry. 

She shut her eyes so she didn’t have to see them. See the devastation she caused to the world around her. 

She thought he was going to let her go to sleep without another word, but finally, he said: 

“When I was getting firewood, you thought that Rick—”

Shit. Shit. Shit. She remembered now. Shit, shit. Fuck. 

She cringed, forcing herself to open her eyes. She saw that Daryl looked as awkward and uncomfortable as she felt. 

“You told Rick that—” 

“Don’t say it, please,” she begged. 

This was mortifying. Daryl had left her at camp to go get firewood while Rick set up the tent. Daryl knew he would be better at navigating the woods and finding the right kind of wood, and there was no question that Francie needed to stay back and rest.

And then…she had tried to help Rick with the tent, only she dropped one of the damn metal clips. She was already in a bad way. In so much pain from the cold that it seemed impossible. Impossible for something as innocent as fresh-fallen snow to hurt so bad. Hungry. Head pounding. Nauseous. So as the metal clip bounced on the hard ground and slid on the ice-covered hill, she let out a dismayed squeak. In a flash, Rick was beside her, pouncing, eyes flashing—she knew what was coming—and she protectively put her hands towards her ass, bending her knees slightly in anticipation, crying out piteously “Please don’t!” 

Rick looked at her like she had eight million heads and all of them were batshit crazy. 

She realized in that split-second as he shoved around her, that he was only trying to desperately grab the clip before it careened down the hill and into the white nothingness.

The shame was unreal. So. She opted out. She just kept her eyes on the ground, as Rick heroically grabbed the clip, falling half in a snowbank as he did so. As he rose and shook himself off, she could feel him looking at her. Studying her. 

Went back to work on the tent. Didn’t say nothing to her for several minutes. Thought maybe she was gonna get out of this. But she was still rooted in spot. Staring at the ground. Uselessly holding her hands by her sides. 

Finally, she felt him near, coming up close to her, so close she could feel the warmth coming off him in the freezing air, see the gray and black stubble on his chin. 

“Wouldn’t ever hit a woman,” he said. 

“I know,” she said abruptly, foolishly, feeling like a prize idiot. “I don’t know why I did that. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t---don’t---” He stopped himself, then began again. “I mean. I just wanted to say. You’re safe here. With me.” 

Her cheeks were aflame. 

“Even if Daryl is gone, getting firewood…or whatever. You’re safe with me. With our group. Even if Daryl…”

She looked up then, almost angrily, a frown on her face. Again, he stopped. 

“He ain’t going nowhere,” he said quickly. “I just meant…don’t want you to be scared of me.”

“I’m not, Rick,” she said, cheeks burning again as she stared down at the snow. “Thank you. Thank you. I’m sorry.” 

“Honey, what did they do to you?” he said suddenly, abruptly, in a hushed horrified voice. “What the fuck did those monsters do to you?” 

She looked up at him again, enraged now. “Nothing I didn’t deserve, okay?” 

He opened his mouth, wanting to say more, but then Daryl was back and she nearly ran away from Rick’s side. Ran away as far as she could in her mind from the incident. Buried it as deep as she could in her mind. Let it careen down the hill like a metal clip falling from her fingers. 

Until now. Daryl’s face. Oh my God, she thought. His face. 

She braced herself for what he was going to say.


	70. are your garments spotless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING/TRIGGER WARNING: RAPE, NON-CONSENT. DADDY KINK. AGE-PLAY. SEXUAL ABUSE. ALL THE ABOVE!

“I know, girl,” he said, thumb massaging her cheekbone, traveling down to her mouth. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you can’t live with this pain all by yourself.” 

She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. 

“Never,” she whispered. 

He clenched his jaw tightly.

“Fine. Then Negan’ll tell me.” 

Her mouth dropped open. 

“What?” he demanded. “You know he will only be too happy to tell me.” 

She knew that was true. It was also beside the point. 

“I don’t ever want you to see him again,” she said, angrily. “What are you talking about?” 

He looked at her. Took her in. Said nothing. Left her in the dark. 

Just like she was doing to him. 

She closed her eyes. 

Daryl sat up abruptly. Her hands dropped from his shirt as he gracelessly untangled their legs. He sat upright in the tent, his face hard and scowling. 

She pushed herself up to her forearms, twisting up to look at him without losing the warmth of the sleeping bag. 

“Who hit you?” he asked. 

She bit her lip.

“Which one? Negan or Simon?” 

She took a breath…then nodded. 

He tilted his head for a second, then understanding dawned in his eyes. 

“Both of ‘em?”

His voice was gruff, harder than she ever heard it. She didn’t reply. 

“Gotta answer me, girl.”

The tent felt like it was spinning. 

“Yes, Da—Daryl,” she said, stuttering, catching herself just in time. Almost called him Daddy, she thought, feeling her stomach twist in shame. 

“Punch you? Kick you? What?” 

She felt tears coming down her cheeks now. 

“N—no,” she said. “Not like that.” 

He shook his head angrily, back and forth, as if he didn’t understand. 

But she knew he did. 

She put her face in her hands. 

What was she supposed to say? He put me over his knees like a little girl? He pulled down my underwear and spanked me and then felt my cunt to see if it was wet?

No. Never. 

“Fuck,” said Daryl, his voice breaking. “Fuck.” 

She didn’t look out from her hands. 

But she felt him suddenly grip her forearms, hold them still in his own large hands. He pulled them down. She looked at his broken, hurting face, the need there, the need spilling out of him and desperate and masculine and boyish at the same time. 

“Daryl,” she started crying. “Please.” 

“Please, what, babygirl? I’ll do anything, anything you tell me,” he said in anguish.

“Don’t…don’t make me,” she cried. “Don’t make me tell. I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it.” 

“Please, shit, don’t cry,” he said, dragging her towards him by the forearms, pulling her head into his lap. “Don’t cry no more. You’re good, you’re good, girl.”

She rubbed her raw, cold face against his jeans, hiccupping through her tears. 

He stroked his hands through her tangled hair. She stared at the blue wall of the tent, snowflakes creating shadows outside on the canvas. 

“Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow?” she sang lowly, the old church hymn coming to her suddenly, her mom’s voice in the choir. “Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?”

His hand slowed on her hair, but didn’t stop. She hummed more bars, not knowing the rest of the words. 

“I want to be good,” she said finally. “I want to be good for you.” 

“You don’t have to want to be, girl,” he said sadly. “You just are. You just are. Don’t you know that?” 

She shifted her head in her lap so she could wipe the tears off her face. 

“Daryl, he…they…Daryl…” She tried to start. She really tried to. Tell him. Just tell him. 

Daryl froze then sighed when her words stopped. 

“Let’s play a game,” he said finally. “All you have to say is yes or no. Okay?” 

She nodded. 

“Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, wrapping one of her hands around his thighs. 

“You trust me?”

“Of course!” she said, looking up at him suddenly. 

“Okay.” 

She turned her head back down and closed her eyes. She did trust him. He wouldn’t push her farther than she could go. 

“Did…they rape you?” 

“No,” she said. “Not…”

Then, she stopped herself. 

Negan had forced himself inside her pussy. Her ass. Not just when he cleaned her. But also at Dr. Carson’s that horrible day. 

She flushed. 

“Oops, I guess that’s a yes,” she said, laughing. 

Daryl’s body was like stone under her. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

She felt tears coming again.

“Noth—nothing wrong with you,” said Daryl, clearing his throat like he was having trouble speaking. “You survived, babygirl. That’s what you did, you survived. That’s all you had to do. And you did it. And you’re still doing it.” 

“Yes,” she said. Her tone even and neutral. “Yes, Negan raped me. Not with his dick. But his hands. He raped me with his fingers. He made their doctor examine me…examine me everywhere. He watched. Like I was an animal…a thing. He watched and…he hurt me, Daryl, he really hurt me.” 

Now she broke, shoving her face into his thigh, then rolling over to press herself into his body, wet tears finding a home there. 

“I know, baby, I know, baby,” he said, gripping her hair in his hand, holding her shoulders tighter. “Just let it out. Let me carry it with you. Let it out.” 

She pulled back and then sat upright, wiping her tears away. 

Voice cold and hard now. Not touching him. Not touching anything. Barely sure she was speaking aloud. 

“He made me call him Daddy. He spanked me like I was a little girl. He made Simon do it too. Made him. But I think he liked it. Everyone knew. Everyone knew. They knew what I was. He told them what I was. He showed them. He walked me naked through the halls. He spanked me in front of them. Made me eat from his hands. He spanked me all the time. He said I was a nasty slut. Needed to be punished,” she said. “And Daryl…Daryl…He would feel my pussy to see if it was wet afterward…Daryl…sometimes it was.” 

Her voice hung in the air, like thick, black smoke filling the tent that couldn’t escape. 

She whispered aloud again, disbelieving, in pure horror. “Sometimes it was.”


	71. our love is six feet under

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song Francie is singing is "Six feet under" by Billie Eilish. 
> 
> Listen to it! it's good as hell:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZgiAgYXneE

“Our love is six feet under, I can’t help but wonder…” sang Francie aloud, her tired voice hardly piercing the snow-filled silence around them. “They’re playing our sound, laying us down tonight...”

Daryl’s jaw was tight, eyes creased with worry. He had to take a shift for watch, before Rick passed out from exposure and exhaustion, but still she dreaded him leaving her, exchanging her for the freezing air and open wilderness. 

“Gonna be safe in here, girl,” he said to her, as he had climbed out of their shared sleeping bag and Rick had taken his spot. “Rick will keep you safe. Warm.” 

On another night, in another place, it would be strange for Rick to be holding her like this, for his arms to be around her instead of Daryl’s arms, his warm breath on her neck and his gentle murmuring in her ear as he settled in next to her. 

But sometime after the moon rose, Francie had entered a danger zone that was apparent to all of them. She was so skinny and so underdressed that the cold was eating her alive as surely as a walker would have. The pain was less now, her hands and feet didn’t hurt anymore. She didn’t dare tell this to Daryl, but she could tell he knew, he always knew. Where she hurt and where she didn’t. 

“Be home in your warm bed tomorrow,” Rick said to her. 

Francie wondered what the hell he was talking about. Home wasn’t a place, it was a person. 

“…and all of these clouds brought us back to life…but you’re cold as a night,” she sang. “Help, I lost myself again, but I remember you.” 

She felt Rick smile against her ear. She shifted slightly to look back at him.

“You remind me of someone when you sing like that,” he said, “Beth.” 

“Where is she now?” 

His face looked solemn. 

“Oh,” she said, feeling foolish. “Of course.” 

“She was sensitive. But strong. A fighter. Like you.” 

Francie shook her head. “I’m not a fighter.” 

Rick scoffed a little, the exhale of his breath moving her hair across her cheek a little. It tickled. 

She rolled over to look at him. 

“The hell you ain’t, sweetheart,” he said. “That’s why Negan wanted you in the first place. It’s fighters he wants. People with spirit. People with strength. That’s why he took Daryl. That’s why he wanted you. Because he couldn’t break you. And that makes him crazy.” 

Francie bit her lip and sadly shook her head. Rick was kind, but he was so, so wrong. He didn’t know what had happened to her. What she had done. What she had allowed to be done. If he did, he wouldn’t be looking at her like this. With this mixture of tenderness and compassion. He would be looking at her with disgust if he knew the truth. 

“You don’t know, Rick…” she said finally. “You wouldn’t…wouldn’t want to be within 10 feet of me if you knew how disgusting and shameful I am.” 

He clucked his tongue in distress, and swiped some of her hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear so he could see her better. 

“I do know, silly,” he said. “I know. He did bad things to you. And sometimes, sometimes…your body didn’t say ‘no’ the way you might expect. But that don’t mean you wanted it or it’s your fault. It’s just a mechanical reaction. It’s completely normal.” 

She looked up at him in wonderment. Had he heard everything outside the tent or was he just surmising from what he witnessed in her behavior since they took her out of there? From the panties and earlier today when…no, she didn’t want to think about that. 

“Happens all the time,” he said. His voice was deep and knowing. “They taught us that in the force, and hell, that was 20 years ago in middle-of-nowhere Georgia. Sure we didn’t even learn the half of it.” 

“Taught you what?” 

He paused, his tongue coming out to moisten his lip briefly. 

After confessing everything to Daryl (well, nearly everything), she had shut down, and finally, Daryl had managed to drag her back into the sleeping bag. As a result, he hadn’t said much about her revelations. But now, Rick was. And he didn’t seem mad or disgusted or disturbed. 

“That sometimes when a woman gets raped or abused, she might…you know, it might make her body do things, even if her mind doesn’t want it to,” he said quietly, twisting one arm to bend his elbow as he gazed down at her. 

“Like…an orgasm?” she said awkwardly, cheeks going pink as she tried to avoid his eyes. 

“Yeah,” he said, gently. “Like that.”

“Negan never gave me an orgasm,” she said suddenly, defensively. “Neither did Simon!” 

He shook his head intensely. “I know, I know…I mean, I don’t know but I’m just saying…whatever happened like that…it doesn’t make it your fault.” 

“Yeah, it does,” she said sadly. 

“Why, honey?” he asked, his forehead creasing. “Don’t you believe what I’m saying to you? I’m telling you, doctors and all kinds of experts would say the same thing.”

She rolled her eyes a little. “Oh, yeah? Would it happen to Tara? Or Maggie? Or Michonne?” 

His face froze. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she breathed. 

He shook his head. “You’re right,” he said, “Maybe Michonne would have resisted more.” 

She looked down. She knew that. 

“But, you know what, she would probably be de-dead right now,” he said, struggling on that word a little. 

Francie shrugged. “There’s worse things than being dead.” 

Rick sank back down on the sleeping bag next to her, letting one of his big arms drop around her waist as he sighed. 

“Not if you love that man outside as much as you seem to,” he said. “I can tell you right now, if you love him the way I know he loves you, then being dead would be the absolute worst thing you could ever do to him.” 

She exhaled a little, tilting her head so that she was buried deeper against his chest. He was smaller than Daryl, and it was harder to feel his body heat. Or, maybe Daryl just gave off more warmth. Or maybe, she reckoned ruefully, she was generally almost dry-humping him, whereas now with Rick, she was self-consciously trying to keep some space between them. 

“I just want to be…better for him,” she said finally. “He deserves better.” 

Rick gave her a small smile. “He’s my brother, honey. And I couldn’t pick better than you. So if you don’t trust your own feelings on that, you better trust mine.” 

Her eyes flitted back and forth across his face. 

“You trust me?”

She gave a tiny shrug. 

He laughed and looked at the ceiling, sighing as he shut his eyes. 

“You’re a good girl, Francie,” he said. “Now go to sleep.”


	72. breathing shallow

“You like that, you nasty slut? Huh? You like it when Simon spanks that little ass?” Negan’s voice taunted. 

She felt his hands moving in between in her legs.

“JEEEEsussssssssssssssss, YES, she does,” he laughed. “Simon, look at this beautiful cream on my hands. Bitch is so wet for you right now. Can you believe that? All that romance and puppy-dog eyes, and it took THIS to get her all ready for you. You could slide your dick right in and she would probably just POP like a cork for you.” 

“No, no, no, no, no, no!” screamed Francie as she tried to wrench her body out of Negan’s hands. It was no use. He had her pinned to the bed, spread open, and Simon’s eyes were dark and angry. “No, please, Simon, please, Simon!” sobbed Francie, kicking and flailing ferociously, fighting like a wild thing, like a dead thing. 

“Hush, hush, hush,” she heard a voice saying. Cold, everything was so cold. 

Weak light filtered into her vision. Negan’s bedroom fell away. She blinked and blinked. Saw Rick’s clear blue eyes staring down at her, worry and exhaustion on his face. He was holding her tightly in his lap, gripping her biceps in his hands as he searched her face helplessly. 

“Oh,” she said, groaned. Her head ached fiercely. 

“I want Daryl,” she cried. 

Rick nervously looked toward the tent door. 

“Where is he?” she asked, seeing his action and instantly awakening with a shot of adrenaline and horror. 

“He’s out there, baby. He’s coming.” 

She frowned. 

“He's coming, I know it, has to be, know he heard you screaming like that…” 

She pulled herself out of his lap with a heroic effort. She twisted out of his arms and tried to stumble to the front door of the tent. 

Rick knocked her back down so suddenly she almost felt the wind go out of her. 

“Francie! Ya ain’t dressed!” he hissed at her, holding her still under his body. 

The only thing that kept her from lashing out at him was the scratch marks he still bore on her face from the last time she attacked him. 

Suddenly, the noise of a zipper alerted them both to look at the tent door. 

“The fuck is happening?” asked Daryl, taking in the scene, but knowing well enough that Rick was helping her, no matter how it may have looked. “She okay?” 

“Nightmare. Bad one,” said Rick. “Then she tried to run out there and find you.” 

Rick released her and she pounced on Daryl. He almost smiled a little as her sudden effort nearly knocked him on his ass, but the tears on her face and violent trembling removed any humor from the situation. 

“It’s okay, girl, it’s okay,” he said softly, stroking her dark, tangled hair with freezing, hurried fingers. 

Rick tossed him the blankets, and Daryl quickly moved to cover her up. The warmth felt like nothing. It couldn’t reach her. 

“She’s not good, Dar,” said Rick. “Her pulse is weak. Breathing shallow.” 

Daryl looked at him, his face in disbelief. 

“We’re so close,” he said. “Only a few miles more.”

“It’s hypothermia,” said Rick. “She ain’t got time.” 

“Where were you?” asked Francie, interrupting the conversation angrily. But her voice was slurred, weak. 

He was silent, looking down at her and chewing his bottom lip. He looked up and directed his reply to Rick. 

“Thought I heard something. Damn sure I did,” he said. “Not a walker, neither. Tried to track it…heard her crying and came running back.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately, “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re good, girl,” he said, his voice low and deep and calming. His gaze was unintense, unfailing. "You're good, babygirl." 

She gave him a weak smile, then shut her eyes and let her head fall heavy against him. She was so tired. She just wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep until this horrible heavy feeling went away. 

“Saviors?” asked Rick, reaching for his gun instinctively.

“Don’t make any sense,” said Daryl. “How could they have gotten here so fast?” 

“We need to move,” said Rick. 

“We can’t!” snapped Daryl, making a nodding motion to Francie. 

Francie opened her mouth to argue, but then they heard the unmistakable sound of people approaching in the snow. 

“Fuck!” Rick was on his knees and unzipping the tent door, immediately, gun in his hand as he peeked out.

Daryl’s face shadowed. 

He eased Francie on to the ground and shouldered his crossbow. 

“You sit here and you don’t move, girl,” he said, gripping her from the back of her neck and leaning in close to her. “Don’t come out for nothing, okay?” 

She nodded dully. She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand. This couldn’t be happening. 

“Daryl,” she bleated out as he moved to leave the tent. “Daryl!” 

He looked back at her, brows knit in concentration. His expression was unlike anything she had ever witnessed before. He looked like something untamed, something beyond human, a predator, a wolf. 

“He ain’t taking you again, Francie,” he said, reaching out for her hand and grasping it so tight she nearly gasped. “I promise you that.” 

And with that, he reached her hand possessively to his mouth and clutched it against his partially-open mouth, as if to bite her, as if to mark her...but instead, he just caressed it against his stubbled, cold face, and then walked out into the cold night air. 

Outside, the wind howled.


	73. gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super short to help me get back in swing of things. sorry i suck at finishing shit <3

The words ‘bloodbath’ never had meaning like it did that night. Hands dripping with it. Snow soaked with it. Coating his hair, burning his eyes, blurring his vision…so much of it but not enough at the same time. 

Five of them, ‘gainst him and Rick but even without his brother, the Saviors were outmanned. As soon as Daryl saw Simon’s face outside the tent, his whole life took shape. Every beating. Every humiliation. Every isolated, impoverished moment. Every unhealed, decaying wound. 

For this. For this. 

He was vaguely aware of Rick beside him, but he was just a minnow in his slipstream, nothing compared to the orchestrated mayhem that poured from him like a gift. And it was. This is what he had to give. 

But, in the end, with Simon half-open in the snow, and Daryl pulling out his entrails like tissue paper on Christmas morning, there was no victory. No sense of accomplishment. Only mild relief. 

And, then, Fat Joey, perennially useless, but finally serving one purpose on that moon-streaked mountain. 

“Parked it half a mile west,” he said, “Just us, I swear,” and for that and the car keys in his pocket, Daryl made it quick. Left him in only a few pieces, eyes intact and most his limbs. 

At some point, on the way to the Saviors’ truck, Daryl noted with some surprise that some of the blood was his. A gunshot in his shoulder. He almost laughed. Like throwing a pebble at a tank.

Francie was wordless, calm. She didn’t remark on any of it. She casually minced around Simon’s body parts on the snow like she was walking around dog shit on a sidewalk. No one spoke. What was there to say?

Once inside the truck, Daryl slung her down on the passenger seat and finally met Rick’s eyes. He looked frightened. Shaking his head with a huff of air, Rick started the truck. 

Daryl settled in beside Francie, arranging her weight against him and holding his hand in a fist against his leaking wound. 

Her eyes closed. But she was humming.


	74. killer angels

“It’s good,” said Daryl, trying to hide his annoyance as Denise pulled another painful thread through the torn skin on his shoulder. It felt like electricity burning through his flesh, electric wire sizzling in the rain. 

Francie watched him worriedly. After sleeping most of the ride to the hotel, she woke up with alarm when she discovered they were pulling up to the Pollack, especially when several people came pouring out of the front door to meet them. 

“Dad!” screamed Carl, and hugs and cheers filled the night. For his part, Daryl only gave brief, serious nods to his family, as his arms were filled with a nervous Francie huddled tightly into his body, uncaring about the blood smearing across her face and hair. 

“Gotta get her inside,” Daryl said to Rick, who nodded quickly and started unloading the Saviors’ truck with the others. It had few but important supplies—shotguns, bullets, some blankets, a tent and some flashlights. The first aid kit under the seat was near picked through but Denise took it from Rick’s hand gratefully. 

Even as he moved singlemindedly inside, Daryl noticed the change in Denise immediately. She had clearly lost some weight, but it was more than that. Her face was leaner, harder, as if someone had scrubbed clean her all-American glow and left something less wholesome in its wake. She almost looked dangerous. On any other night, Daryl night have marveled at that awful and powerful change. Not tonight. 

Tonight he just needed Francie inside. Behind walls. Under blankets. Somewhere they could keep her safe until he could figure out how to fix what was so broken inside of her.

She had willingly drank some water while Denise stitched up Daryl, but refused to eat any of the soup Tara brought her. 

“What? It’s actually good, I promise. Alden made it, and he used to date a chef or something apparently,” said Tara a little defensively, her words coming fast and almost agitated. She was different too, Daryl noticed. Nervous and sad and lost. 

Lot of that going around, he thought ironically. 

“Leave her be,” said Daryl gruffly. 

Denise raised her brows and the thread pulled tight. He hissed in genuine pain at the sharp pressure. 

“It’s fine, Tar, sweetheart,” said Rick lowly, pulling Tara by the elbow and pointing to the nightstand. “Just leave it.”

“I’m done, anyway,” said Denise. “It looks like shit and you’re gonna have scars but...what’s a few more, right?”

Daryl went a little cold. That tone...cavalier, sharp, tactless. So unlike the gentle therapist he remembered before he left. Before she got taken. Before Negan. He saw something in Tara’s eyes change. 

Downstairs Judith howled. Rick nodded to the group and exited, clearly eager to leave the tense room and find his baby girl. 

“Thank you,” said Francie, her words shaky but clear. “For making him better.” 

Denise didn’t look up and just kept packing her supplies.

Tara cleared her throat and bounced on her heels a little. 

“Need anything else?” She asked finally, when it was clear no one else was going to speak.

Daryl pulled his t-shirt back over head. 

“Who’s on watch?” He asked.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Tara quickly. “We’re all here. We have a system now. Since...since you been gone. This place is safer than Alexandria, even without a fence yet. Plus, we got Mother Nature on our side...no one can creep up on us but from one way, and we got ten of us watching on shifts morning, noon and night.”

“Good,” said Daryl, nodding. 

“HE did a really good job,” said Francie. “He worked on it all the time.”

Her voice was prideful, almost indignant. He blushed a little.

Tara nodded. “We know,” she said. “We’re happy as hell he’s back. And—and you. I know we barely got to know ya, but you’re one of us now.” 

Francie laughed a little at that. To Daryl’s surprise, Denise did too. They both sounded cold. Sardonic. Like...like Negan, Daryl thought, against his will.

“Yeah, I’ve been a great addition to your family,” said Francie, sarcasm in every pained word. 

Daryl longed to reach out and hold her, but the tension in the room felt as tight as a bow string. He stayed on the bed as Denise threw away the last bit of used gauze. 

“Clean water pumped in the bathroom,” she said finally. “Should wash some of that shit off you.”

Daryl gave a brief, distracted nod. As happy as he was to be back in his room with Francie, he was suddenly wishing for the wild and the isolation of being outdoors. 

“You look clean though,” said Denise pointedly to Francie. “Look real pretty in fact. Is that a fucking manicure I see?”

Daryl slammed his hand down on the nightstand.

“What the fuck is going on?” He snapped, barely directing his question at Denise, instead glaring at Tara. She looked meek and said nothing. 

“You know she gave herself up for you, right? As soon as she knew he had you,” hissed Daryl, rising to his feet and glowering over her.

“Yeah, that was before she went and became a groupie,” hissed Denise. 

Francie made a low startled moan. Daryl never had such an urge to strike a woman before. As if sensing his desire, Tara laid a cool hand on his still blood-soaked bicep. 

“The fuck does that mean?” He bit out, then directed it to Tara. “The fuck does that mean?”

“Just...just gossip from the Sanctuary. From Negan’s men,” she said sadly, shaking her head. “I don’t know. About the stuff she did. Their...her...her relationship with Simon, then Negan. It just sounded...intense.”

Daryl felt more than saw Francie’s expression. Light going off. Going away. She was devoid of emotion. 

“She was a...sex slave, do you know that, do you get that?” Daryl demanded, enraged tears springing to his eyes. His teeth clenched so tight he thought he would break his jaw from the inside out. “He destroyed her. He drugged her. He abused her and raped her and....he’s the monster, not her. She never...how could you ever? Doc, how of all people could you ever—-“

At some point he had started yelling, yelling because footsteps came running, and someone took Denise away and Tara ran after her and the rest of the group stared at the pair of them, Francie made of stone, Daryl covered in blood. 

Their expressions were sympathetic but frightened. As if some great big bird had accidentally flown into the window and now was flailing and in pain before them. Anyone who got too close risked all and in any case, what could be done? It had to fly on its own or not at all. 

For Daryl, he did what he needed to get what he wanted. Ate... so she would. And when it was half done, he fed the rest to his lover, who sat docile and distant beside him. He moved the spoon cautiously and carefully so it never clinked on the bowl. 

Later that night, when she threw it all up from the withdrawals which were now making her shake and sweat and sob, he cleaned it up with the same cautious, quiet motions. 

He was aware he was singing, then, a low husky song that little Beth used to sing. “You’ve got to hold on, hold on, you’ve really got to hold on...”

His voice was shit but she smiled in his lap as she shook, so he sang the night through. And isn’t it funny, how the new world made killers of angels and angels of killers and they all moved like clouds never stopping at all.


	75. blood won't dry

In the early morning hours, Daryl woke up with a start. He had ended up spooning Francie from behind in bed, and even before he opened his eyes he could feel he was rock-hard. 

He instantly moved to roll away before she felt it, but she was on him, before he could, grasping his arms and holding him in place flush against her back. A sob tore from her chest then. 

It felt different from last night, when she cried because she was sick and was sick because she cried.

He made a quiet sad sound, trying to pull his arm away so he could hold her properly instead of just forcing her on top of his dick which would not stop being hard much to his chagrin. But he had missed her and missed her so bad and now she was here and he couldn’t help but respond to it, even if she was sick and broken and coming down as worse as Merle ever had. 

“I knew it was you when I woke up...” she whispered shakily. “I knew it and you were hard like him but..It wasn’t him behind me anymore.” 

Daryl felt the color leave his face and he was glad she couldn’t see him. The thought of her being held against her will with Negan assaulting her, his morning wood against her sweet body...the brutality of that felt too much to bear. To not even have a moment where she was safe and protected and sacred. Not even before her eyes opened. 

He wanted to cry. He wanted to sob into her hair and tell her how sorry he was. But he didn’t trust himself. To go there. To surrender to something that could destroy him right now.

“What can I do?” He asked finally, while she cried.

“I need something,” she begged again, the same plea from all night through. 

For the hundredth time he answered, “We don’t have anything,” and he was glad it was true because if it wasn’t he would have given her anything, would have shot her up himself. 

“I want to die, Negan, I want to die,” she cried, and he clenched his arms around her tighter.

He wanted to correct her but her voice was slurred with sleep and confusion and dope-sickness and he knew he didn’t know what the fuck she just said. 

“Let me go to him, let me go to him,” she begged, and for a minute he was confused, till she continued, “If he’s dead I want to be dead too. Let me be with him, let me be with him. I need Daryl. I need Daryl.”

His heart broke. Her eyes were slammed shut and she was speaking to herself or ghosts or something beyond reason. 

When she finally fell asleep, he let himself cry. Not for all that she endured or all he endured or even his family. He just thought about Merle. And that little burnt out bedroom that they shared before the flames and furor took it. His bad dreams and the bed wetting and the whippings and his big brother holding him tight while the blood dried, probably scared shitless like he was but never showing it, never letting Daryl see. 

He cried cause Merle was gone and the bedroom was gone but the pain wasn’t and he was scared shitless and the blood never dried. 

I want my big brother. I want my big brother. I want my big brother. I need my brother. I need my brother. I need my brother. Like a mantra in his head and then sleep opened unwillingly and let him in.


	76. something good

In the late afternoon, the clock reading 3:45 p.m., Rick came in with a tray of toast and coffee and two bowls of oatmeal. 

Francie sat up in bed, her cheeks hollow and her eyes swollen. Daryl had been wiping up the bathroom floor, again, when he heard the door. 

“You think you can keep some food down, girl?” He asked her, and she shook her head in disgust. 

Rick handed him a packet of Benadryl. “Expired but it may help. We used it in the jail for addicts.”

“I know. Merle did too,” said Daryl. And he found that he liked saying his name out loud. 

“Here, sweetheart,” said Rick, “Take those meds from Dar. Might help you a little.”

Francie hopefully looked up but then lost interest when she saw what it was in Daryl’s hand.

“She’s hurting, man,” said Daryl quietly, the words simple but holding more than enough meaning for the cop. 

“You’re taking good care of her,” said Rick, and his hand found his shoulder and squeezed and Daryl felt an odd wave of relief at the contact. 

“She’s strong,” said Rick. “Aren’t you, honey?” 

And he sat on the bed next to her, taking the packet from Daryl and opening it in his hand.

“Take these and eat some oatmeal and go back to sleep,” he said.

She looked at him defiantly. Then a strange, meek flicker went across her face and she glanced up at Daryl, as if to read his expression.

“Is he mad at me?” She asked Rick, who looked baffled up at Daryl and shook his head. 

“Of course I’m not,” said Daryl, sinking down to his haunches and grasping her hand. “Why you think that, girl?” 

“Cause...cause I’m being so bad?” She asked, looking down at the comforter and biting her lip with a flushed face. 

Daryl shut his eyes and sighed. “Ain’t being bad at all. Just sick, girl.”

Rick grabbed her chin gently and titled it up at him. 

“See, he ain’t mad at you. Now, eat up, or I’ll feed you myself, okay?” He said, in a no-nonsense tone. 

She nodded and slowly started to pick up the spoon, but then stopped. “The others are mad at me. The doctor woman.” 

She stared at her bowl and her tangled hair fell forward. 

“The doctor woman—Denise—she’s sick too, you know,” said Rick, a little slowly and uncertainly. 

Francie frowned. “Like me?”

He shook his head and let a hand scrape against his stubbled jaw.

“Sort of. She saw some bad stuff, and it scared her. But she’ll get better.” 

“You can help her,” Francie said to Daryl, smiling shyly at him as she took a tentative bite of oatmeal. “You always help me when I’m scared.”

He resisted the urge to point out that she spent half the night terrified and him helpless to stop it, but instead he just accepted her sweet smile, then looked at Rick. 

“That gonna be a problem?” He asked, and they both knew what he meant. If the family was turning on Francie, if Denise’s feelings and the gossip from the sanctuary would make her unwelcome. 

“Hell, naw,” said Rick, and Daryl was surprised by how angry he sounded. “No problem. Ain’t gonna let it be one. She went to hell and back for this family when she could have kept running. Anyone who doesn’t honor that level of sacrifice ain’t getting a vote about shit.”

Daryl looked at his tense, clouded expression. His brows went up a little as he watched Rick watch her eat. Their time together in the woods had changed everything. She had gone from a burden to something Rick wanted to protect too. 

Daryl was glad of it, but wary. He didn’t know if he would ever feel safe with another man’s eyes on her, even Rick’s...not until she got better at least. Not until she was whole and right-thinking and able to make sense of things. Until then he had to hold her careful as glass.

“Is it good, honey?” Rick said, smiling a little as her spoon gained speed. 

She nodded and then looked down at Daryl who was still on the floor. 

“Make him eat too, please?” She asked. “And sleep. He’s been up all night.” 

Rick grinned and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. Then he gave Daryl a faux-stern look. “Eat, Dar.” 

“I’m fine,” said Daryl, sitting up and grabbing a cup of coffee and a bowl off the tray. 

But in truth, he was starving and shaking with hunger. He sank in the armchair and ate greedily. The trio didn’t speak for a few minutes. Francie crunched into a piece of toast and then giggled at the face Rick made at her.

“You know, Francie,” said Rick suddenly after another spell of silence, “Nothing that happened was your fault.” 

She stopped chewing. Daryl’s hand stilled mid air, his coffee hovering over his lap. 

She finished chewing and stared down at the bedspread, then back up at Rick.

“But...he said...he said...I had to have liked it, because...”

Her voice trailed off and her cheeks flushed. She wrung her hands in her lap.

“None of that’s true, though,” said Rick. “He lied to you. About everything.”

“Then—why do I feel so...bad?” 

And they all knew she didn’t mean the dope-sickness, but a different kind of bad. The kind that lives under your skin and burrows into your heart, pincers deep.

“You’re a good girl, Francie,” said Rick, grasping her hands over the comforter. “You’re a good girl in a bad world but you ain’t bad.”

Daryl worried his lower lip with his teeth and watched them. She sat motionless for a while, Rick’s large hands over her small ones. Then she abruptly looked over at Daryl. 

“Can you lie by me now?” She said meekly. “I’m really tired.” 

He grunted and stood up, finishing his the rest of his toast in one bite. 

“Thank you for being kind to me,” Francie said to Rick, who was moving to collect the plates and cups.

“Of course,” he said, flashing her smile and then ruffling the top of her hair. “You just rest and focus on getting healthy okay? Dar needs ya well. We all do.”

Abruptly, she grabbed Rick’s hand from her hair and brought it to her mouth. She kissed it. For a moment, he looked sad. Daryl knew what he was thinking. How childish and innocent she looked at that moment. How depraved and empty Negan made her feel. 

“I’ll walk you out,” Daryl said to Rick, before the sad expression could register with Francie.

“Love ya, brother,” Rick said at the hotel room door. 

“Thanks, man,” said Daryl, and his voice sounded tired and sorrowful and a million miles away. 

“He...he is going to pay for this, ” Rick said quietly so Francie couldn’t hear. “We’re gonna make him pay more than God ever could.”

A light flickered behind Daryl’s eyes. He needed to hear that. Rick knew. Rick knew him. 

“You ain’t alone in this, man,” Rick said. “I’m with you. She’s gonna get better. And he’s gonna pay.”

Daryl’s eyes filled with tears. He nodded. 

“Good,” said Rick with finality, as if they had agreed upon something. “Good.” 

When Daryl went back in the room and folded her into his arms, he noticed she was only trembling faintly now, not shaking. The room smelled like syrup and coffee and days opening and his brother didn’t feel so far away at all.


	77. this is no dream, this is really happening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw <3

Daryl dreamed. A painfully erotic dream like he hadn’t experienced since adolescence. He was weak with desire, body vibrating with need, as he journeyed through the thick, erotic dream, seeking release, searching for her. It took him several seconds to come back to himself, to realize this was not a dream any longer, this was real, this was happening, and there was a warm mouth wrapped around his steel-hard cock, soft hair draped across his thighs. 

He let out a loud, shocked moan, and resisted the urge to buck his hips—he didn’t want to hurt her, but he didn’t know what the fuck was going on. He couldn’t stop her, he wouldn’t stop her, he had to stop her—

“Franc—Fran—Francie,” he panted, almost embarrassed by how broken and needful his voice sounded. 

She gave a low questioning hum in response, vibrating against his cock and he suddenly realized he was very, very close to the edge. As if she sensed his climax, her small hand wrapped around his balls and tugged—and he reached down and grabbed her hair tightly in his fist in response, uttering a guttural sound that he never heard himself make before. 

He felt wild, out of control, ready to just escape into this—ready to just lay back and let this happen, but then, he became more awake and more aware, and he suddenly was hit by the fear that she may not realize it was him. Daryl. Not Negan. Not the Sanctuary, but somewhere safe. Somewhere she was human and whole and important. 

So, with discipline he didn’t know he had, he “Please, please — don’t —stop,” and whether he was begging her to continue or cease, he didn’t truly know. She seemed to sense his unease, however, and finally - she released him- with a low moan coming from his throat as she did so. 

“Am I doing something wrong?” She asked politely, her gentle, concerned tone not matching the almost devastatingly lustful look in her eyes.

“No, God, no...no,” he said, his voice low and gravely from sleep and desire...and GOD no, he wanted to repeat again until she started doing that beautiful fucking thing with her mouth again.

Her hands reached out and spanned his lower belly, as if trying to comfort him, ground him, a curious exchange of roles, and he took his hands out of her hair and clutched them. 

“You’re cold,” he said, almost accusingly. Absurdly. 

She giggled, and he couldn’t help quirking half a smile at that.

“Just mean...just meant....girl....damn...” Again, coherent speech eluded him. 

She giggled again, then shook her head, her dark waves tumbling down and - fuck – causing some of her locks to fall upon his still rock-hard cock. Jesus. He slammed his eyes shut. He could come right now from that alone.

“I WANT to,” she said, her voice breaking. “Please, Daryl. Don’t…don’t keep me apart from you anymore. I know…I know you want to be careful with me…you’re so good to me, but Daryl…we don’t have the time for that now. Not in this life. Not here.” 

And the lustful look in her deepened into something wild, something knowing, as if she was an oracle reading his future. It was terrifying, but it was true.

The room went silent. 

“Tell me what you want, girl,” he said, finally. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

She smiled. Paused a beat. Then said, slowly, in between strokes as she began pulling and caressing his dick in her right hand, “I want to suck you….. so hard ….that you feel better than you have ever felt in your whole life……. I want you so deep in my throat … that I am choking on you, swallowing you, drinking you down when you ……..finally ….come in my mouth.” 

“WELL, damn, girl,” he choked out.

“Is that a yes?” she said, cocking her head, and sticking out her tongue and hovering it just behind his dick, as if awaiting his permission. But her hands kept working him, and he could only let out a torturous sounding “Mmmmm” as he bit his lower lip in pure bliss. 

“Yeah?” she asked, her voice teasing, her lips just barely brushing the head of his cock. He felt himself nearly vibrate with longing. “You sure?” 

He reached out then, grabbing her from under the chin and gently tipping her head up with one hand, while using his other hand to wrap around hers as he firmly gripped his erection. For a moment, they stayed like that, Daryl masturbating himself over her soft hand. She then leaned down and gave the head of his penis one chaste, angelic kiss while grinning up at him. He let out an almost angry moan. 

“You better go on and start sucking this dick, girl,” he said, gripping his hand a little harder around hers and bucking his hips up slightly. “Need—need that sweet mouth.” 

“Ohhh,” she sighed happily, with an almost surprised look on her face. “I was so scared you weren’t gonna let me.”

He harrumphed at the insanity of that, shaking his head as she slowly took him back in her mouth—and GODDAMN, it had only been minutes, and he had already forgotten how good that felt, how motherfucking perfect that felt, and it all fell away. Negan and Simon and Rick and Eric and the walkers and the pain and the hatred and the death, it fell away like a shadow.

All he felt now was uninterrupted pleasure, full-body goddamn perfection…the sound of her sucking on his dick alone was enough to make him almost break with desire. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, so he didn’t miss a moment of this sight—this fucking gorgeous woman with untamed hair and sweet, desperate eyes, working his dick like it was all she fucking wanted in this world. Like he was all she fucking wanted. He put his head in his hands then, to keep from grasping her and forcing himself further into her mouth, fucking her as deep as he wanted to. 

She slowly eased off his cock, looking up at him and tilting her head. “Is…it…am I…is it how you like it?” 

He looked down at her, hands falling back to his sides. “Shhhshiitt, yeah. Babygirl. Shit. Yeah.”

Her eyes searched his and a naughty smile broke out on her face. Pushing herself up on his thighs, she pulled her cami off, her tits bouncing free as she did so. His hands were on them before she could even get her arms back down, gripping and massaging them roughly. 

“Fuckkkk, fucking love your tits, girl,” he said, directing his comment to her chest as if speaking to them directly. “Damn, look at these fucking tits. GodDAMN, girl.” 

He was in a daze, no longer paying attention to her, just focused on moving his thumbs around her pink nipples and then, she giggled, and slid herself so that his dick was between her full tits, letting him slide his cock up and down her cleavage. He bit back a growl.

“You like that?” she asked, a little amusement in her voice, because he had his eyes locked on the sight of his cock nestled between those fucking perfect breasts, groaning with each thrust as she guided his quivering dick between them. 

He couldn’t reply. Past that. Just kept groaning, until finally, he suddenly surprised himself by ordering, “Get your mouth back on this dick, girl. Want to come down your throat.” 

She hummed in happy obedience, releasing him from his soft prison and pulling him back into her throat. This time he didn’t hold back, couldn’t hold back. Gripping his fingers around her head and holding her hair taut, he pushed and pulled her up and down on his cock as far as he thought she could take it. She gagged, and he quirked his gaze down at her, but she was okay, perfect fucking Francie, his Francie, his sweet girl, and he came down her throat while moaning, “Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk,” and she hummed a little, swallowing his cum, and his hands went slack and gentle in her hair, petting her now.

Then when the haze settled, he yanked her almost roughly by her armpits, pulling her off his lap and onto his chest, wrapping one hand around her left tit as she came close to him and clutching it tightly. 

Her expression was joyous, carefree. Like blowing him was some kind of fucking pleasure. He clucked his tongue and shook his head slightly.

She kept looking at him as if waiting for him to say something, but all he could come up in his exhausted, overwhelmed state was another “Fuckkkk,” and she laughed. 

“Go to sleep, Daryl,” she said, stroking his cheek tenderly. “Poor baby. You finally got to rest and I woke you up.” 

He leaned down and kissed her then, softly, on the side of the lips. He stroked a lazy finger around her nipple. 

“Don’t wanna sleep. Wanna taste my girl.” 

He reached his hand off her tit and let it drift down her belly, cupping her pussy through her leggings. 

She looked up at him and bit her lip. Uncertainty flooded her eyes. He stopped, eyes widening. 

“NO…I want you to, I do…just…” she stuttered, a familiar feeling of fright cloaking her expression. 

“Ain’t no pressure, girl,” he said, pulling his hand off her pussy reluctantly, and wishing he could read what was going on behind those light green eyes. “We can take it slow.” 

“I just…I wanted to make you feel good, y’know?” she said, looking down at his chest. “I-nne—needed you. To be close to you.”

He nodded sadly. “I’m here, girl. I’m with you.”

“But all the stuff I told you…about Negan and Simon…and everyone downstairs thinks I’m a slut and…I’m so ashamed,” she said, a tear slipping down her cheek. 

He stroked it away. “No one thinks anything bad of you, baby. They better fucking not.” 

She looked up at him. 

“I think that’s all I wanted to do tonight,” she said finally. “I’m not…ready for you to touch me yet. I—ca—I don’t think I can feel good like that anymore.” 

He felt his eyes darken against his will. Negan. Negan did this. Ripped the fucking wings off his fucking girl. Left her broken and hurting and terrified. Unable to even receive pleasure from the man who loved her.

“It’s okay, baby,” he said, trying not to let her see how much that fucking gutted him, to know he couldn’t share that with her, couldn’t be close to her like that, couldn’t give back the pleasure she poured into him so devotedly. 

“Yeah?” she asked, unsure. “I’m sorry…I—”

“Don’t,” he said, fingers coming to rest on her lips. “Don’t say sorry. Not for that. I’m glad you told me, girl. If it’s too much right now…if you can’t right now, that don’t matter.” 

“But…it’s not normal---not to, and I do want to, and I have thought about it soo many times—”

He interrupted her, guilt flooding his gut. “Is it okay that I…should I not have let you?” 

His eyes gestured down to his cock. She shook her head violently. “No,” she said, starting to cry. “I can make you feel good. I WANT to make you feel good. But…I think I can’t get to that space myself right now…you know?” 

He wrapped her tightly against himself, his large forearm resting against the back of her neck as he smashed her flush on his chest. 

“Hush, baby, I know,” he said, “I know. I know. I know.” 

They stayed that way, his deep tone barely above a whisper as he soothed his girl, her tears softly falling. They fell asleep just as dawn began curling through the curtains, locked against each other bodies as if they were afraid some force was going to come to pull them apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i need to tag titty fucking? lol


	78. close to okay

The next morning when Daryl woke up, the bed was empty. Panic almost racked his body (he didn’t think he would ever feel truly comfortable again without Francie beside him), but then he glimpsed a paper tucked on the pillow beside him. 

“Got your girl – Rick,” it read, and Daryl huffed a sigh of relief. Upon glancing out the window and seeing how high the sun was in the clear sky, Daryl realized it was probably closer to early afternoon. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept so long or so deeply. Sure, he had spent several weeks barely getting even a handful of hours of rest, but he figured his long slumber was also thanks in part to the fucking mind-blowing blowjob he had gotten last night. He grinned a little to himself as he pulled on his jeans, moving quickly before his hardening cock got any ideas. He wanted to find Francie and make sure she was okay, not give himself any relief right now. 

Pulling on a black tee shirt as he walked down the hallway, he swiped his long hair off his face. 

“Hey, Dar,” said Carl, walking by with Judith conked out on his shoulder. 

Daryl grunted in reply, looking down at the sleeping baby, and gently stroking her back.

“Gonna go lay her down,” explained Carl, then added quickly, “My dad is with Francie downstairs in the kitchen.” 

“Thanks,” said Daryl roughly, quietly, trying to keep his expression unchanged. Even the boy could read his damn mind when it came to his single-minded obsession it seemed. But there was no judgement or mockery in the teen’s eyes. 

“I’m glad she’s back,” said Carl, turning around and looking back at Daryl. “But she seems…like…”

Daryl paused and stared back at him, chewing on his thumbnail. 

“Like what?” asked Daryl finally. 

“They really hurt her, didn’t they?” said Carl, his question rhetorical and not needing an answer. 

Daryl gave a sharp nod. 

“Do…do you remember that time you found us…when those men had us, and they were going to…” Carl’s face was flushed, his voice shaky and uncertain. 

Daryl’s expression darkened. Of course he remembered. Coming upon his family in the woods, his family he was not sure he would ever see again, and Beth gone, and then finding Carl in the hands of a sick rapist, and Rick as close to unhinged as he had ever seen him. Wouldn’t ever forget it, the blood slick and violently red against Rick’s face, the rage and terror vibrating off him so hard it almost shook the trees themselves. 

“How…how…how do you get over that?” asked Carl brokenly. “I don’t see how…”

Daryl sighed and scrubbed his face over his hands. He really didn’t want to be having this conversation. 

“How do we help her?” asked Carl, his tone a little desperate. 

Daryl looked at him. Poor kid. He gave him a soft smile. 

“You ain’t gotta do nothing, boy,” he said. “Just be kind to her, like you already are.”

Carl gave a half-nod. 

“Doesn’t seem like enough though,” he said, and this time there was violence in his tone. Daryl knew what he was thinking about. Revenge. Bloodlust. Emptying the world of the evil of Negan by tooth and claw, with pure vicious rage. 

“Your daddy and me, we got that handled,” said Daryl. “He’s gonna pay, trust that.” 

Carl looked at Daryl. His expression looked haunted. He looked at Judith in his arms and tears filled his eyes. 

“What if—what if—Judith—even in the old world, being a girl was like…you know? —and if she’s really pretty like my mom was—” He seemed to struggle with his words, chewing on his lower lip as he clutched the sleeping bundle against his chest. 

Daryl suddenly understood. He felt his stomach clench a little. 

“You’re a good brother,” he said, trying to keep his tone even. “You take care of her. Just like you always have. What happened to Francie…what happened to my girl…ain’t gonna happen to Judy, okay? You can’t think like that. Can’t let your mind go there.” 

Carl gazed down at the carpet. Neither spoke for a moment. 

“You’ll fix her, right?” Carl asked quietly, “It’s going to be okay?” 

Daryl looked at him, realizing how quickly the teen could still switch from such adult worries to an almost childlike need to be reassured and comforted. 

“Of course,” he answered, with a bold confidence that was a mere façade. But it was enough for the sad boy in front of him. 

“Okay. Okay.” Carl accepted his reassurance gratefully. 

Daryl hid a bit of a smile. Wondered if Merle was able to comfort him so easily when he was a kid. Doubted it somehow. 

“Gonna go find her now,” said Daryl, turning to head back down the hallway. “Put that little girl to bed.” 

Carl nodded, and gave him the peace sign awkwardly as he shifted Judith’s weight in his arms. 

Daryl took the steps quickly as he headed to the kitchen, a bounce in his step. He had no certainty everything was going to be okay, as he had promised the kid, but he knew Negan’s blood would be all over his hands soon. And that was as close to okay as they could get.


	79. couldn't tempt her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back to Francie POV

Francie sat with a plate of pancakes in front of her. They were cut in long, thin strips, and they reminded her of fingers. Pancake fingers. She focused on them. Bloated, syrupy fingers. Like a sponge. Like something soft and horrible and disgusting. 

She laid a hand on her forehead. The tension in her body was like a vice. Although Negan never beat her, she spent hours upright and sleeping in odd positions, and now she felt permanently misshaped. As if her spine was an infinity symbol of pain…she wanted to scream, to rip her hair out, to vomit, to cry, to just DIE… let this horrible thing die, jesus FUCKING Christ she couldn’t exist one more moment feeling like this. 

She felt a gentle hand stroke the back of her head. She looked up. Rick. She tried to smile but could only look up at him hollowly. 

“It’s just a bad morning, girl,” he said, sitting beside her and letting a hand lay steady on her lower back. “What you’re coming off of…it ain’t no joke. But you can do it. You are doing it.”

She shook her head wordlessly. She knew he was being kind. But she didn’t deserve that. Didn’t want that. Didn’t want lies. She couldn’t do this. 

She couldn’t bear his gaze anymore and looked down. Everything felt shaky, like she was lost at sea. She had never been sick like this before. She had the violent urge to cut herself open and scoop out the sickness like the guts of a pumpkin.

“You know, Dar’s brother…he had a hard time of it for a while,” said Rick, casually. As if he knew that mentioning Daryl’s name might help her somehow. 

She hadn’t wanted to leave him back in the room, but Rick’s knock interrupted her on what was her fifth round of vomiting (she had heroically mastered the art of doing this near-silently, anything to not be a further burden on the man in the next room). But Rick had convinced her she needed to eat, and that Daryl needed to rest, and now here, in this big steel kitchen, she felt like someone had torn a hole inside of her…jonesing like a fuckin’ junkie and her mind a fucking place she never wanted to be again. 

And pancake fingers. 

“Merle,” she said finally, realizing Rick was waiting to see if he should continue. “I know. Sometimes…Daryl…he misses him.” 

Rick emitted a low sad noise. She glanced up at him, and was surprised to see the tender expression on his face. 

“I just mean…he talks about him…he’s said—just a few things,” she said quietly, then stared back down at her plate. 

If it was any other man with his hand nearly around her waist or looking at her with that expression, she would lash out in terror, but something about Rick felt comforting. Made her feel less sick. Less terrified. It was easy to see how he became the leader of this group. Easy to understand why everyone else dutifully cleared out of the kitchen when he told them to, when he demanded they give Francie some space. Something about Rick made you want to obey. 

“Well, Merle, he was…he was something,” said Rick, laughing a little and shaking his head. “Sure didn’t care nothing about fitting in with our little ragtag group back then.” 

“And he was an addict?” She asked, staring down at her plate and hoping Rick couldn’t tell how unmoored she truly felt. 

“Yup…mainly ice, Dar said, but he wasn’t picky,” said Rick. “You know finding a dealer in the apocalypse ain’t easy.” 

She wanted to laugh, knew he wanted her to, but it didn’t feel funny right now. Too damn sick and too damn busy hating herself for it. 

“Daryl wanted to touch me last night and I wouldn’t let him,” she said suddenly, abruptly, horrifically. She couldn’t believe her own ears. A flush covered her cheeks. She started to shake. 

She felt Rick’s hand tighten around her back, fingers tensing into her hip. 

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he said. “You want some water?” 

He used his other hand to bring the cup in front of her to hover before her mouth. She reached out for it but her trembling hands splashed water across the tiled floor. 

“I’m sor—” she tried to say, but before she could continue, he grabbed the glass and tsked saying, “I got you, honey, I got you,” and she drank from the cup while he held it for her. It tasted like ash in her mouth, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep it down long. 

He pulled the cup away and swiped her lower lip with his thumb.

“I’m sorry I said that,” she said, casting her eyes down in misery. “I just…I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

"Don’t be,” he said, again with that same tenderness. She had the sudden urge to crawl into his lap and bawl like a baby. “You need to talk about this stuff.” 

She bit her lip and wiped a tear off her cheek. 

“These pancakes are like fingers,” she announced.

Rick snorted a little. 

She looked up at him and pouted. “They are, they’re like walker fingers.” 

“You need to eat something,” he said, a bit sternly, pushing her plate closer to her and pulling an errant lock back behind her ear so it didn’t get in the syrup. “Ain’t nothing wrong with them.” 

“Ain’t nothing right with them, either,” she said in a mocking Southern drawl, which earned her another snort and a teasing swat to the thigh. 

“You want an apple instead? Some graham crackers?” he said, his tone a bit more conciliatory. “Come on, I want this win.”

She cocked her head at him. “Win? What do you mean?” 

“Want to take you back up to your room and tell Dar I got you to eat something,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling. “Got you feeling a little better. Bring him some good news for a change.”

The sudden silly mood evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. Her mind flooded back to the night before. And all the hours before that when Daryl had to cart her back and forth to the bathroom, clean up her mess, deal with her stupid fucking bullshit. 

Rick’s expression changed, as if he sensed her mood, and leaned forward to drape an arm around her shoulders. He reached for the plate and picked up her knife, obliterating the pancakes into tiny bites. She watched him, mesmerized. No more fingers. 

With her face just inches from his, he half shifted in his seat so he could look down at her. 

“Shouldn’t have said it that way,” he said, giving her a light kiss on the forehead. “Didn’t mean…shoot, having you here with him is all the good news he needs. It’s just gonna take some time, and he knows that.”

She looked up at him doubtfully, then leaned into his neck and sighed. 

“Gonna take a helluva lot more than that,” said a voice behind them, and they both turned to see Daryl standing there, flicking open his lighter with a cigarette pursed between his lips. 

Something released in her. “Darrryl,” she said, a smile lighting up her face. “Daryl’s awake,” she said to Rick. 

Rick gave a short laugh. “I see that, honey,” he said, and then to Daryl, “Wanted to get her to eat.” 

“Yeah? Any luck?” 

Daryl walked up beside her and sat at the chair next to her, gazing down at her full plate with a cocked eyebrow. 

“Guess that’s a no,” he said. 

She shrugged defensively.

“Sorry, Dar,” said Rick as Daryl reached out to grab a huge bite off Francie’s plate. “’Fraid I couldn’t tempt her.” 

“’S’fine,” said Daryl, catching Francie’s eye and giving her a small smile. “She’s more ‘n a mite picky.” 

Francie grinned. She loved when he slipped into his true Southern form, his drawl so thick it almost became hard to understand and his boyish, cocky side coming to the surface. 

Rick got up to pour Daryl a cup of coffee, while Francie found her chair being dragged across the floor by Daryl’s foot, as he brought her even closer to his seat. She giggled, and with one hand, he continued shoveling pancakes into his mouth, while the other hand wrapped around her body, pulling her snug into him while he ate. For the first time that morning, she felt steady. Well, steadier, at least. She let her eyes close. 

“She’s hurting this morning, brother,” said Rick quietly, the cup clanking on the table in front of Daryl as he handed him his coffee. 

Daryl let out a low, sad noise, looking down at her. She peeked up at him from underneath half-closed lashes. His expression looked troubled. He stopped eating, staring down at the plate, his fork motionless in his hand. 

“Be okay,” she said, then glancing at Rick, hoping to lighten the mood again. “Rick said so.” 

“Absolutely, honey,” he said. “We’re all gonna make sure of that.” 

Daryl nodded, but he looked sad. She hated when he looked sad. She always made him sad. Tears filled her eyes. She shut them before anyone could see. She was so bad. If only he never found her that day in the woods. His whole life would be so much better. All his friends alive and well and his home intact. Love was supposed to make you whole, not tear you apart. 

She was a disease. 

“You with me, girl?” she heard him ask roughly, and she gave a tiny coo in response. He dropped the fork and wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her so that she was now fully in his lap, cradled like a child with her head hidden in his neck. 

“Sorry,” she heard Rick say quietly. “Maybe I was wrong to push her to come down here.”

“Ain’t nothing you gotta be sorry ‘bout,” Daryl replied, letting his fingers run up and down her back. The tension in her muscles relaxed a little, but she couldn’t stop trembling, not even with him holding her so tightly. “Thanks for taking care of her for me.”

“’Course, man,” said Rick. “Gonna go check on the kids now. Leave ya to it. You got this?”

Daryl’s grip tightened around her. “We’re good. I got her.”

“Try to get her to keep some food down. Least some water. She’s so dehydrated her electrolytes must be shot,” said Rick. “She like grits? There’s some in the pot on the stove.”

“EW--NO!” said Francie angrily, as if in horror, and Rick’s laugh rang out in the large kitchen as he turned to leave the couple alone.


End file.
